LIBRARY 

IVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


THE  BOOK'LOVER'S 

ARNHEIM  EDITION 

This  edition  of  the  Complete  Works  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  is  limited  to  Five  Hundred 
Signed  and  Numbered  sets,  of  which  this  is 


THE 

COMPLETE  WORKS 


ALLAN  POE 


The  Imp  of  the  Perverse. 

"There  is  no  passion  in  nature  so  demoniacally  impatient, 
as  that  of  him  who,  shuddering  upon  the  edge  of  a  precipice, 
thus  meditates  a  plunge." 


MISCELLANY 


G.  P,  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK:  AND  LONDON 
Z&be  ftnicfeecbocfcer  press 


arfr  to  qml  srfT 


02  BIUJBH  m  noiaaaq  on  21  919/iT" 
,3oiqio9iq  B  io  a^9  9^^  noqu  ^nhsbbi/ria  ,orfw  mirf  lo  Isd^  z& 

gjjrfl 


THE 

COMPLETE  WORKS 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


MISCELLANY 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

Ube  fmfcfcecbocfcer  press 


Copyright,  1902 
(For  Introduction  and  Designs) 

by 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


TTbe  ftnicfcerbocfcer  prees,  flew  fork 


Contents 

Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

Prefaces  to  "  The  Conchologist's  First  Book  "      . 

Philosophy  of  Furniture 

Cryptography 

A  Chapter  on  Autography 

Anastatic  Printing 

Eureka — An  Essay  on  the  Material  and  Spiritual 
Universe 

Title  Index 


PAGE 
i 

40 
44 
54 

•     77 
.  162 


in 


List  of  Illustrations 

PAGE 

The  Imp  of  the  Perverse      .        .        .  Frontispiece 

"  There  is  no  passion  in  nature  so  demoniacally 
impatient  as  that  of  him  who,  shuddering  upon 
the  edge  of  a  precipice  thus  meditates  a  plunge." 

Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham   .....     36 

Washington  Irving      ......     86 

Etched  by  Jacques  Reich  from  the  painting  by 
C.  R.  Leslie. 

Edward  Everett  .......  108 

From  a  steel  engraving. 

William  Ellery  Channing     .....  128 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti         .....  140 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson        .....  160 

From  the  painting  by  A.  E.  Smith.     Reproduced 
by  permission  of  Foster  Brothers,  Boston. 


List  of  Illustrations 


PAGE 

Hop-Frog 200 

"  Waited  patiently  until  midnight     ...    be 
fore  making  their  appearance." 
(See  vol.  vi.,  page  267.) 

Mrs.  Clemm's  House  in  Carmine  St.     .        .        .  240 
Poe's  first  home  in  New  York. 

Lander's  Cottage 300 

"  Suddenly    .     .     .     and  as  if  by  the  hand  of 
magic,  this  whole  valley  and  everything  in  it  be 
came  brilliantly  visible.'* 
(See  vol.  vi.,  page  311.) 


VI 


MISCELLANY 


MaelzePs  Chess-Player 

ERHAPS  no  exhibition  of  the  kind  has  ever 
elicited  so  general  attention  as  the  Chess- 
Player  of  Maelzel.  Wherever  seen  it  has 
been  an  object  of  intense  curiosity  to  all  persons  who 
think.  Yet  the  question  of  its  modus  operand!  is  still 
undetermined.  Nothing  has  been  written  on  this 
topic  which  can  be  considered  as  decisive,  and,  accord 
ingly,  we  find  everywhere  men  of  mechanical  genius, 
of  great  general  acuteness  and  discriminative  under 
standing,  who  make  no  scruple  in  pronouncing  the 
Automaton  a  pure  machine,  unconnected  with  human 
agency  in  its  movements,  and  consequently,  beyond  all 
comparison,  the  most  astonishing  of  the  inventions  of 
mankind.  And  such  it  would  undoubtedly  be,  were 
they  right  in  their  supposition.  Assuming  this  hy 
pothesis,  it  would  be  grossly  absurd  to  compare  with  the 
Chess-Player  any  similar  thing  of  either  modern  or 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

ancient  days.  Yet  there  have  been  many  and  wonder 
ful  automata.  In  Brewster's  Letters  on  Natural  Magic 
we  have  an  account  of  the  most  remarkable.  Among 
these  may  be  mentioned,  as  having  beyond  doubt  ex 
isted,  firstly,  the  coach  invented  by  M.  Camus  for  the 
amusement  of  Louis  XIV.  when  a  child.  A  table, 
about  four  feet  square,  was  introduced  into  the  room 
appropriated  for  the  exhibition.  Upon  this  table  was 
placed  a  carriage  six  inches  in  length,  made  of  wood, 
and  drawn  by  two  horses  of  the  same  material.  One 
window  being  down,  a  lady  was  seen  on  the  back  seat. 
A  coachman  held  the  reins  on  the  box  and  a  footman 
and  page  were  in  their  places  behind.  M.  Camus  now 
touched  a  spring;  whereupon  the  coachman  smacked 
his  whip  and  the  horses  proceeded  in  a  natural  manner 
along  the  edge  of  the  table,  drawing  after  them  the 
carriage.  Having  gone  as  far  as  possible  in  this  direc 
tion,  a  sudden  turn  was  made  to  the  left,  and  the 
vehicle  was  driven  at  right  angles  to  its  former  course 
and  still  closely  along  the  edge  of  the  table.  In  this 
way  the  coach  proceeded  until  it  arrived  opposite  the 
chair  of  the  young  prince.  It  then  stopped,  the  page 
descended  and  opened  the  door,  the  lady  alighted  and 
presented  a  petition  to  her  sovereign.  She  then  re- 
entered.  The  page  put  up  the  steps,  closed  the  door, 
and  resumed  his  station.  The  coachman  whipped  his 
horses,  and  the  carriage  was  driven  back  to  its  original 
position. 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

The  Magician  of  M.  Maillardet  is  also  worthy  of 
notice.  We  copy  the  following  account  of  it  from  the 
Letters  before  mentioned  of  Dr.  B.,  who  derived  his 
information  principally  from  the  Edinburgh  Ency* 
clopxdia  i 

"  One  of  the  most  popular  pieces  of  mechanism 
which  we  have  seen  is  the  Magician  constructed  by  M. 
Maillardet,  for  the  purpose  of  answering  certain  given 
questions.  A  figure,  dressed  like  a  magician,  appears 
seated  at  the  bottom  of  a  wall,  holding  a  wand  in  one 
hand  and  a  book  in  the  other.  A  number  of  questions, 
ready  prepared,  are  inscribed  on  oval  medallions,  and 
the  spectator  takes  any  of  these  he  chooses,  and  to 
which  he  wishes  an  answer,  and,  having  placed  it  in  a 
drawer  ready  to  receive  it,  the  drawer  shuts  with  a 
spring  till  the  answer  is  returned.  The  magician  then 
arises  from  his  seat,  bows  his  head,  describes  circles 
with  his  wand,  and,  consulting  the  book  as  if  in  deep 
thought,  he  lifts  it  toward  his  face.  Having  thus  ap 
peared  to  ponder  over  the  proposed  question,  he  raises 
his  wand,  and,  striking  with  it  the  wall  above  his  head, 
two  folding-doors  fly  open  and  display  an  appropriate 
answer  to  the  question.  The  doors  again  close,  the 
magician  resumes  his  original  position,  and  the  drawer 
opens  to  return  the  medallion.  There  are  twenty  of 
these  medallions,  all  containing  different  questions,  to 
which  the  magician  returns  the  most  suitable  and 
striking  answers.  The  medallions  are  thin  plates  of 

3 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

brass,  of  an  elliptical  form,  exactly  resembling  each 
other.  Some  of  the  medallions  have  a  question  in 
scribed  on  each  side,  both  of  which  the  magician  an 
swers  in  succession.  If  the  drawer  is  shut  without  a 
medallion  being  put  in  it,  the  magician  rises,  consults 
his  book,  shakes  his  head,  and  resumes  his  seat,  the 
folding-doors  remain  shut,  and  the  drawer  is  returned 
empty.  If  two  medallions  are  put  into  the  drawer  to 
gether,  an  answer  is  returned  only  to  the  lower  one. 
When  the  machinery  is  wound  up,  the  movements  con 
tinue  about  an  hour,  during  which  time  about  fifty 
persons  may  be  answered.  The  inventor  stated  that 
the  means  by  which  the  different  medallions  acted 
upon  the  machinery,  so  as  to  produce  the  proper  an 
swers  to  the  questions  which  they  contained,  were 
extremely  simple." 

The  Duck  of  Vaucanson  was  still  more  remarkable. 
It  was  of  the  size  of  life,  and  so  perfect  an  imitation  of 
the  living  animal  that  all  the  spectators  were  deceived. 
It  executed,  says  Brewster,  all  the  natural  movements 
and  gestures,  it  ate  and  drank  with  avidity,  performed 
all  the  quick  motions  of  the  head  and  throat  which  are 
peculiar  to  the  duck,  and  like  it  muddled  the  water 
which  it  drank  with  its  bill.  It  produced  also  the 
sound  of  quacking  in  the  most  natural  manner.  In 
the  anatomical  structure  the  artists  exhibited  the  high 
est  skill.  Every  bone  in  the  real  duck  had  its  repre 
sentative  hi  the  automaton,  and  its  wings  were 

4 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

anatomically  exact.  Every  cavity,  apophysis,  and  cur 
vature  was  imitated,  and  each  bone  executed  its  proper 
movements.  When  corn  was  thrown  down  before  it, 
the  duck  stretched  out  its  neck  to  pick  it  up,  swallowed, 
and  digested  it.1 

But  if  these  machines  were  ingenious,  what  shall  we 
think  of  the  calculating  machine  of  Mr.  Babbage  ? 
What  shall  we  think  of  an  engine  of  wood  and  metal 
which  can  not  only  compute  astronomical  and  naviga 
tion  tables  to  any  given  extent,  but  render  the  exacti 
tude  of  its  operations  mathematically  certain  through 
its  power  of  correcting  its  possible  errors  ?  What 
shall  we  think  of  a  machine  which  can  not  only  accom 
plish  all  this,  but  actually  print  off  its  elaborate  results, 
when  obtained,  without  the  slightest  intervention  of 
the  intellect  of  man  ?  It  will,  perhaps,  be  said  in  reply, 
that  a  machine  such  as  we  have  described  is  altogether 
above  comparison  with  the  Chess-Player  of  Maelzel. 
By  no  means,  it  is  altogether  beneath  it,  that  is  to  say, 
provided  we  assume  (what  should  never  for  a  moment 
be  assumed)  that  the  Chess-Player  is  a  pure  machine, 
and  performs  its  operations  without  any  immediate 
human  agency.  Arithmetical  or  algebraical  calcula 
tions  are,  from  their  very  nature,  fixed  and  determinate. 
Certain  data  being  given,  certain  results  necessarily 
and  inevitably  follow.  These  results  have  dependence 


1  Under  the  head  "  Androides  "  in  the  Edinbutgh  Encyclopaedia  may  be  found 
a  full  account  of  the  principal  automata  of  ancient  and  modern  times. 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

upon  nothing,  and  are  influenced  by  nothing  but 
the  data  originally  given.  And  the  question  to  be 
solved  proceeds,  or  should  proceed,  to  its  final  deter 
mination  by  a  succession  of  unerring  steps  liable  to  no 
change  and  subject  to  no  modification.  This  being  the 
case,  we  can  without  difficulty  conceive  the  possibility 
of  so  arranging  a  piece  of  mechanism,  that  upon 
starting  it  in  accordance  with  the  data  of  the  question 
to  be  solved,  it  should  continue  its  movements  regu 
larly,  progressively,  and  undeviatingly  toward  the 
required  solution,  since  these  movements,  however 
complex,  are  never  imagined  to  be  otherwise  than  finite 
and  determinate.  But  the  case  is  widely  different  with 
the  Chess-Player.  With  him  there  is  no  determi 
nate  progression.  No  one  move  in  chess  necessarily 
follows  upon  any  one  other.  From  no  particular  dis 
position  of  the  men  at  one  period  of  a  game  can  we 
predicate  their  disposition  at  a  different  period.  Let  us 
place  the  first  move  in  a  game  of  chess  in  juxtaposi 
tion  with  the  data  of  an  algebraical  question,  and  their 
great  difference  will  be  immediately  perceived.  From 
the  latter,  from  the  data,  the  second  step  of  the  ques 
tion,  dependent  thereupon,  inevitably  follows.  It  is 
modelled  by  the  data.  It  must  be  thus  and  not  other 
wise.  But  from  the  first  move  in  the  game  of  chess 
no  especial  second  move  follows  of  necessity.  In  the 
algebraical  question,  as  it  proceeds  toward  solution,  the 
certainty  of  its  operations  remains  altogether  unim- 

6 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

paired.  The  second  step  having  been  a  consequence 
of  the  data,  the  third  step  is  equally  a  consequence 
of  the  second,  the  fourth  of  the  third,  the  fifth  of  the 
fourth,  and  so  on,  and  not  possibly  otherwise,  to  the 
end.  But  in  proportion  to  the  progress  made  in  a 
game  of  chess  is  the  uncertainty  of  each  ensuing  move. 
A  few  moves  having  been  made,  no  step  is  certain. 
Different  spectators  of  the  game  would  advise  different 
moves.  All  is  then  dependent  upon  the  variable  judg 
ment  of  the  players.  Now  even  granting  (what  should 
not  be  granted)  that  the  movements  of  the  Automaton 
Chess-Player  were  in  themselves  determinate,  they 
would  be  necessarily  interrupted  and  disarranged  by 
the  indeterminate  will  of  his  antagonist.  There  is, 
then,  no  analogy  whatever  between  the  operations  of 
the  Chess-Player  and  those  of  the  calculating  machine 
of  Mr.  Babbage,  and  if  we  choose  to  call  the  former  a 
pure  machine  we  must  be  prepared  to  admit  that  it  is, 
beyond  all  comparison,  the  most  wonderful  of  the  in 
ventions  of  mankind.  Its  original  projector,  however, 
Baron  Kempelen,  had  no  scruple  in  declaring  it  to  be 
a  "  very  ordinary  piece  of  mechanism,  a  bagatelle 
whose  effects  appeared  so  marvellous  only  from  the 
boldness  of  the  conception  and  the  fortunate  choice  of 
the  methods  adopted  for  promoting  the  illusion."  But 
it  is  needless  to  dwell  upon  this  point.  It  is  quite  cer 
tain  that  the  operations  of  the  Automaton  are  regulated 
by  mind  and  by  nothing  else.  Indeed,  this  matter  is 

7 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

susceptible  of  a  mathematical  demonstration,  a 
The  only  question,  then,  is  of  the  manner  in  which 
human  agency  is  brought  to  bear.  Before  entering 
upon  this  subject  it  would  be  as  well  to  give  a  brief 
history  and  description  of  the  Chess-Player  for  the 
benefit  of  such  of  our  readers  as  may  never  have  had 
an  opportunity  of  witnessing  Mr.  Maelzel's  exhibition. 
The  Automaton  Chess-Player  was  invented  in  1769 
by  Baron  Kempelen,  a  nobleman  of  Presburg,  in  Hun 
gary,  who  afterward  disposed  of  it,  together  with  the 


secret  of  its  operations,  to  its  present  possessor.1  Soon 
after  its  completion  it  was  exhibited  in  Presburg,  Paris, 
Vienna,  and  other  continental  cities.  In  1783  and 
1784  it  was  taken  to  London  by  Mr.  Maelzel.  Of  late 
years  it  has  visited  the  principal  towns  in  the  United 
States.  Wherever  seen,  the  most  intense  curiosity  was 
excited  by  its  appearance,  and  numerous  have  been  the 
attempts,  by  men  of  all  classes,  to  fathom  the  mystery 


1  This  was  written  in  1835,  when  Mr.  Maelzel,  recently  deceased,  was  ex 
hibiting  the  Chess-Player  in  the  United  States. — Editor. 

8 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

of  its  evolutions.  The  cut  on  opposite  page  gives  a 
tolerable  representation  of  the  figure  as  seen  by  the 
citizens  of  Richmond  a  few  weeks  ago.  The  right  arm, 
however,  should  lie  more  at  length  upon  the  box,  a 
chess-board  should  appear  upon  it,  and  the  cushion 
should  not  be  seen  while  the  pipe  is  held.  Some  im 
material  alterations  have  been  made  hi  the  costume  of 
the  player  since  it  came  into  the  possession  of  Maelzel 
— the  plume,  for  example,  was  not  originally  worn. 

At  the  hour  appointed  for  exhibition,  a  curtain  is 
withdrawn,  or  folding-doors  are  thrown  open,  and  the 
machine  rolled  to  within  about  twelve  feet  of  the  near 
est  of  the  spectators,  between  whom  and  it  (the  ma 
chine)  a  rope  is  stretched.  A  figure  is  seen  habited  as 
a  Turk,  and  seated,  with  its  legs  crossed,  at  a  large  box 
apparently  of  maplewood,  which  serves  it  as  a  table. 
The  exhibitor  will,  if  requested,  roll  the  machine  to 
any  portion  of  the  room,  suffer  it  to  remain  altogether 
on  any  designated  spot,  or  even  shift  its  location  re 
peatedly  during  the  progress  of  a  game.  The  bottom 
of  the  box  is  elevated  considerably  above  the  floor  by 
means  of  the  castors  or  brazen  rollers  on  which  it 
moves,  a  clear  view  of  the  surface  immediately  beneath 
the  Automaton  being  thus  afforded  to  the  spectators. 
The  chair  on  which  the  figure  sits  is  affixed  perma 
nently  to  the  box.  On  the  top  of  this  latter  is  a  chess 
board,  also  permanently  affixed.  The  right  arm  of 
the  Chess-Player  is  extended  at  full  length  before  him, 

9 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

at  right  angles  with  his  body,  and  lying,  in  an  appa 
rently  careless  position,  by  the  side  of  the  board.  The 
back  of  the  hand  is  upward.  The  board  itself  is  eight 
een  inches  square.  The  left  arm  of  the  figure  is  bent 
at  the  elbow,  and  in  the  left  hand  is  a  pipe.  A  green 
drapery  conceals  the  back  of  the  Turk  and  falls  par 
tially  over  the  front  of  both  shoulders.  To  judge  from 
the  external  appearance  of  the  box,  it  is  divided  into 
five  compartments — three  cupboards  of  equal  dimen 
sions,  and  two  drawers  occupying  that  portion  of  the 
chest  lying  beneath  the  cupboards.  The  foregoing 
observations  apply  to  the  appearance  of  the  Automaton 
upon  its  first  introduction  into  the  presence  of  the 
spectators. 

Maelzel  now  informs  the  company  that  he  will  dis 
close  to  their  view  the  mechanism  of  the  machine. 
Taking  from  his  pocket  a  bunch  of  keys,  he  unlocks 
with  one  of  them  a  door  marked  i  in  the  cut  on  page 
8,  and  throws  the  cupboard  fully  open  to  the  inspec 
tion  of  all  present.  Its  whole  interior  is  apparently 
filled  with  wheels,  pinions,  levers,  and  other  machinery, 
crowded  very  closely  together,  so  that  the  eye  can 
penetrate  but  a  little  distance  into  the  mass.  Leaving 
this  door  open  to  its  full  extent,  he  goes  now  round  to 
the  back  of  the  box,  and,  raising  the  drapery  of  the 
figure,  opens  another  door  situated  precisely  in  the 
rear  of  the  one  first  opened.  Holding  a  lighted  candle 
at  this  door,  and  shifting  the  position  of  the  whole 

10 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

machine  repeatedly  at  the  same  time,  a  bright  light  is 
thrown  entirely  through  the  cupboard,  which  is  now 
clearly  seen  to  be  full,  completely  full,  of  machinery. 
The  spectators  being  satisfied  of  this  fact,  Maelzel 
closes  the  back  door,  locks  it,  takes  the  key  from  the 
lock,  lets  fall  the  drapery  of  the  figure,  and  comes 
round  to  the  front.  The  door  marked  i,  it  will  be  re 
membered,  is  still  open.  The  exhibitor  now  proceeds 
to  open  the  drawer  which  lies  beneath  the  cupboards 
at  the  bottom  of  the  box,  for  although  there  are  ap 
parently  two  drawers  there  is  really  only  one,  the 
two  handles  and  two  key-holes  being  intended  merely 
for  ornament.  Having  opened  this  drawer  to  its  full 
extent,  a  small  cushion  and  a  set  of  chessmen,  fixed 
in  a  framework  made  to  support  them  perpendicu 
larly,  are  discovered.  Leaving  this  drawer,  as  well  as 
cupboard  No.  i,  open,  Maelzel  now  unlocks  door  No. 
2  and  door  No.  3,  which  are  discovered  to  be  folding- 
doors,  opening  into  one  and  the  same  compartment. 
To  the  right  of  this  compartment,  however  (that  is  to 
say,  to  the  spectators1  right),  a  small  division,  six 
inches  wide  and  filled  with  machinery,  is  partitioned 
off.  The  main  compartment  itself  (in  speaking  of  that 
portion  of  the  box  visible  upon  opening  doors  2  and  3 
we  shall  always  call  it  the  main  compartment)  is  lined 
with  dark  cloth  and  contains  no  machinery  whatever 
beyond  two  pieces  of  steel,  quadrant-shaped,  and 
situated  one  in  each  of  the  rear  top  corners  of  the 

ii 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

compartment.  A  small  protuberance  about  eight 
inches  square,  and  also  covered  with  dark  cloth,  lies 
on  the  floor  of  the  compartment  near  the  rear  corner 
on  the  spectators'  left  hand.  Leaving  doors  No.  2  and 
No.  3  open,  as  well  as  the  drawer  and  door  No.  i,  the 
exhibitor  now  goes  round  to  the  back  of  the  main 
compartment,  and,  unlocking  another  door  there,  dis 
plays  clearly  all  the  interior  of  the  main  compartment 
by  introducing  a  candle  behind  it  and  within  it.  The 
whole  box  being  thus  apparently  disclosed  to  the  scru 
tiny  of  the  company,  Maelzel,  still  leaving  the  doors 
and  drawer  open,  rolls  the  Automaton  entirely  round 
and  exposes  the  back  of  the  Turk  by  lifting  up  the 
drapery.  A  door  about  ten  inches  square  is  thrown 
open  hi  the  loins  of  the  figure,  and  a  smaller  one  also 
in  the  left  thigh.  The  interior  of  the  figure,  as  seen 
through  these  apertures,  appears  to  be  crowded  with 
machinery.  In  general,  every  spectator  is  now  thor 
oughly  satisfied  of  having  beheld  and  completely 
scrutinized,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  every  individ 
ual  portion  of  the  Automaton,  and  the  idea  of  any 
person  being  concealed  in  the  interior,  during  so  com 
plete  an  exhibition  of  that  interior,  if  ever  entertained, 
is  immediately  dismissed  as  preposterous  in  the  ex 
treme. 

M.  Maelzel,  having  rolled  the  machine  back  into  its 
original  position,  now  informs  the  company  that  the 
Automaton  will  play  a  game  of  chess  with  any  one 

12 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

disposed  to  encounter  him.  This  challenge  being  ac 
cepted,  a  small  table  is  prepared  for  the  antagonist  and 
placed  close  by  the  rope,  but  on  the  spectators'  side  of 
it,  and  so  situated  as  not  to  prevent  the  company  from 
obtaining  a  full  view  of  the  Automaton.  From  a 
drawer  in  this  table  is  taken  a  set  of  chessmen,  and 
Maelzel  arranges  them  generally,  but  not  always,  with 
his  own  hands,  on  the  chess-board,  which  consists 
merely  of  the  usual  number  of  squares  painted  upon 
the  table.  The  antagonist  having  taken  his  seat,  the 
exhibitor  approaches  the  drawer  of  the  box  and  takes 
therefrom  the  cushion,  which,  after  removing  the  pipe 
from  the  hand  of  the  Automaton,  he  places  under  its 
left  arm  as  a  support.  Then,  taking  also  from  the 
drawer  the  Automaton's  set  of  chessmen,  he  arranges 
them  upon  the  chess-board  before  the  figure.  He  now 
proceeds  to  close  the  doors  and  to  lock  them,  leaving 
the  bunch  of  keys  in  door  No.  i.  He  also  closes  the 
drawer,  and,  finally,  winds  up  the  machine  by  apply 
ing  a  key  to  an  aperture  in  the  left  end  (the  specta 
tors'  left)  of  the  box.  The  game  now  commences,  the 
Automaton  taking  the  first  move.  The  duration  of 
the  contest  is  usually  limited  to  half  an  hour,  but  if  it 
be  not  finished  at  the  expiration  of  this  period,  and  the 
antagonist  still  contends  that  he  can  beat  the  Autom 
aton,  M.  Maelzel  has  seldom  any  objection  to  con 
tinue  it.  Not  to  weary  the  company  is  the  ostensible 
and,  no  doubt,  the  real  object  of  the  limitation.  It 

13 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

will,  of  course,  be  understood  that  when  a  move  is 
made  at  his  own  table  by  the  antagonist,  the  corres 
ponding  move  is  made  at  the  box  of  the  Automaton, 
by  Maelzel  himself,  who  then  acts  as  the  representa 
tive  of  the  antagonist.  On  the  other  hand,  when  the 
Turk  moves,  the  corresponding  move  is  made  at  the 
table  of  the  antagonist,  also  by  M.  Maelzel,  who  then 
acts  as  the  representative  of  the  Automaton.  In  this 
manner  it  is  necessary  that  the  exhibitor  should  often 
pass  from  one  table  to  the  other.  He  also  frequently 
goes  in  the  rear  of  the  figure  to  remove  the  chessmen 
which  it  has  taken,  and  which  it  deposits,  when  taken, 
on  the  box  to  the  left  (to  its  own  left)  of  the  board. 
When  the  Automaton  hesitates  in  relation  to  its  move, 
the  exhibitor  is  occasionally  seen  to  place  himself  very 
near  its  right  side,  and  to  lay  his  hand  now  and  then, 
in  a  careless  manner,  upon  the  box.  He  has  also  a 
peculiar  shuffle  with  his  feet,  calculated  to  induce  sus 
picion  of  collusion  with  the  machine  in  minds  which 
are  more  cunning  than  sagacious.  These  peculiari 
ties  are,  no  doubt,  mere  mannerisms  of  M.  Maelzel, 
or,  if  he  is  aware  of  them  at  all,  he  puts  them  in  prac 
tice  with  a  view  of  exciting  in  the  spectators  a  false 
idea  of  the  pure  mechanism  in  the  Automaton. 

The  Turk  plays  with  his  left  hand.  All  the  move 
ments  of  the  arm  are  at  right  angles.  In  this  manner, 
the  hand  (which  is  gloved  and  bent  in  a  natural  way), 
being  brought  directly  above  the  piece  to  be  moved, 

14 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

descends  finally  upon  it,  the  fingers  receiving  it,  in 
most  cases,  without  difiiculty.  Occasionally,  however, 
when  the  piece  is  not  precisely  in  its  proper  situation 
the  Automaton  fails  in  his  attempt  at  seizing  it.  When 
this  occurs,  no  second  effort  is  made,  but  the  arm  con 
tinues  its  movement  in  the  direction  originally  in 
tended,  precisely  as  if  the  piece  were  in  the  fingers. 
Having  thus  designated  the  spot  whither  the  move 
should  have  been  made,  the  arm  returns  to  its  cushion, 
and  Maelzel  performs  the  evolution  which  the  Au 
tomaton  pointed  out.  At  every  movement  of  the 
figure  machinery  is  heard  in  motion.  During  the 
progress  of  the  game,  the  figure  now  and  then  rolls  its 
eyes  as  if  surveying  the  board,  moves  its  head,  and 
pronounces  the  word  "  echec"  (check)  when  necessary.1 
If  a  false  move  be  made  by  his  antagonist,  he  raps 
briskly  on  the  box  with  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand, 
shakes  his  head  roughly,  and,  replacing  the  piece 
falsely  moved  in  its  former  situation,  assumes  the  next 
move  himself.  Upon  beating  the  game,  he  waves  his 
head  with  an  air  of  triumph,  looks  around  compla 
cently  upon  the  spectators,  and,  drawing  his  left  arm 
farther  back  than  usual,  suffers  his  fingers  alone  to 
rest  upon  the  cushion.  In  general,  the  Turk  is  vic 
torious — once  or  twice  he  has  been  beaten.  The  game 
being  ended,  Maelzel  will  again,  if  desired,  exhibit  the 

1  The  making  the  Turk  pronounce  the  word  "  echec  "  is  an  improvement 
by  M.  Maelzel.  When  in  possession  of  Baron  Kempelen,  the  figure  indicated 
a  check  by  rapping  on  the  box  with  his  right  hand. 

15 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

mechanism  of  the  box  in  the  same  manner  as  before. 
The  machine  is  then  rolled  back,  and  a  curtain  hides 
it  from  the  view  of  the  company. 

There  have  been  many  attempts  at  solving  the  mys 
tery  of  the  Automaton.  The  most  general  opinion  in 
relation  to  it,  an  opinion,  too,  not  unfrequently  adopted 
by  men  who  should  have  known  better,  was,  as  we 
have  before  said,  that  no  immediate  human  agency 
was  employed, — in  other  words,  that  the  machine  was 
purely  a  machine  and  nothing  else.  Many,  however, 
maintained  that  the  exhibitor  himself  regulated  the 
movements  of  the  figure  by  mechanical  means,  operat 
ing  through  the  feet  of  the  box.  Others,  again,  spoke 
confidently  of  a  magnet.  Of  the  first  of  these  opin 
ions  we  shall  say  nothing  at  present  more  than  we 
have  already  said.  In  relation  to  the  second  it  is  only 
necessary  to  repeat  what  we  have  before  stated,  that 
the  machine  is  rolled  about  on  castors,  and  will,  at  the 
request  of  a  spectator,  be  moved  to  and  fro  to  any  por 
tion  of  the  room,  even  during  the  progress  of  the  game. 
The  supposition  of  the  magnet  is  also  untenable,  for 
if  a  magnet  were  the  agent,  any  other  magnet  in  the 
pocket  of  a  spectator  would  disarrange  the  entire 
mechanism.  The  exhibitor,  however,  will  suffer  the 
most  powerful  loadstone  to  remain  even  upon  the  box 
during  the  whole  of  the  exhibition. 

The  first  attempt  at  a  written  explanation  of  the 
secret,  at  least  the  first  attempt  of  which  we  ourselves 

16 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

have  any  knowledge,  was  made  in  a  large  pamphlet 
printed  at  Paris  in  1785.  The  author's  hypothesis 
amounted  to  this — that  a  dwarf  actuated  the  machine. 
This  dwarf  he  supposed  to  conceal  himself  during  the 
opening  of  the  box  by  thrusting  his  legs  into  two  hollow 
cylinders,  which  were  represented  to  be  (but  which  are 
not)  among  the  machinery  in  the  cupboard  No.  i, 
while  his  body  was  out  of  the  box  entirely  and  covered 
by  the  drapery  of  the  Turk.  When  the  doors  were 
shut,  the  dwarf  was  enabled  to  bring  his  body  within 
the  box,  the  noise  produced  by  some  portion  of  the 
machinery  allowing  him  to  do  so  unheard,  and  also  to 
close  the  door  by  which  he  entered.  The  interior  of 
the  Automaton  being  then  exhibited,  and  no  person 
discovered,  the  spectators,  says  the  author  of  this 
pamphlet,  are  satisfied  that  no  one  is  within  any  por 
tion  of  the  machine.  The  whole  hypothesis  was  too 
obviously  absurd  to  require  comment  or  refutation, 
and,  accordingly,  we  find  that  it  attracted  very  little 
attention. 

In  1789  a  book  was  published  at  Dresden  by  M.  I.  F. 
Freyhere,  in  which  another  endeavor  was  made  to  un 
ravel  the  mystery.  Mr.  Freyhere's  book  was  a  pretty 
large  one,  and  copiously  illustrated  by  colored  engrav 
ings.  His  supposition  was  that  "  a  well-taught  boy, 
very  thin  and  tall  of  his  age  (sufficiently  so  that  he 
could  be  concealed  in  a  drawer  almost  immediately 
under  the  chess-board)  "  played  the  game  of  chess  and 

VOL.  X. — 2.  j  ij 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

effected  all  the  evolutions  of  the  Automaton.  This 
idea,  although  even  more  silly  than  that  of  the  Pa 
risian  author,  met  with  a  better  reception,  and  was  in 
some  measure  believed  to  be  the  true  solution  of  the 
wonder,  until  the  inventor  put  an  end  to  the  discussion 
by  suffering  a  close  examination  of  the  top  of  the  box. 
These  bizarre  attempts  at  explanation  were  followed 
by  others  equally  bizarre.  Of  late  years,  however,  an 
anonymous  writer,  by  a  course  of  reasoning  exceed 
ingly  unphilosophical,  has  contrived  to  blunder  upon 
a  plausible  solution,  although  we  cannot  consider  it 
altogether  the  true  one.  His  essay  was  first  pub 
lished  in  a  Baltimore  weekly  paper,  was  illustrated  by 
cuts,  and  was  entitled  An  Attempt  to  Analyze  the 
Automaton  Chess  "Player  of  M,  Maelzel  This  essay 
we  suppose  to  have  been  the  original  of  the  pamphlet 
to  which  Sir  David  Brewster  alludes  in  his  Letters  on 
Natural  Magic,  and  which  he  has  no  hesitation  in  de 
claring  a  thorough  and  satisfactory  explanation.  The 
results  of  the  analysis  are  undoubtedly,  in  the  main, 
just;  but  we  can  only  account  for  Brewster's  pro 
nouncing  the  essay  a  thorough  and  satisfactory  ex 
planation  by  supposing  him  to  have  bestowed  upon  it 
a  very  cursory  and  inattentive  perusal.  In  the  com 
pendium  of  the  essay,  made  use  of  in  the  Letters  on 
Natural  Magic,  it  is  quite  impossible  to  arrive  at  any 
distinct  conclusion  in  regard  to  the  adequacy  or  in 
adequacy  of  the  analysis,  on  account  of  the  gross  mis- 

18 


Maelzel's  Chess-Play er 

arrangement  and  deficiency  of  the  letters  of  reference 
employed.  The  same  fault  is  to  be  found  in  the 
Attemptf  etc.,  as  we  originally  saw  it.  The  solution 
consists  in  a  series  of  minute  explanations  (accom 
panied  by  wood-cuts,  the  whole  occupying  many 
pages),  in  which  the  object  is  to  show  the  possibility 
of  so  shifting  the  partitions  of  the  box  as  to  allow  a 
human  being,  concealed  in  the  interior,  to  move  por 
tions  of  his  body  from  one  part  of  the  box  to  another 
during  the  exhibition  of  the  mechanism,  thus  eluding 
the  scrutiny  of  the  spectators.  There  can  be  no  doubt, 
as  we  have  before  observed,  and  as  we  will  presently 
endeavor  to  show,  that  the  principle,  or  rather  the 
result  of  this  solution  is  the  true  one.  Some  person  is 
concealed  in  the  box  during  the  whole  time  of  exhibit 
ing  the  interior.  We  object,  however,  to  the  whole 
verbose  description  of  the  manner  in  which  the  par 
titions  are  shifted  to  accommodate  the  movements 
of  the  person  concealed.  We  object  to  it  as  a  mere 
theory  assumed  in  the  first  place,  and  to  which  cir 
cumstances  are  afterward  made  to  adapt  themselves. 
It  was  not,  and  could  not  have  been,  arrived  at  by  any 
inductive  reasoning.  In  whatever  way  the  shifting  is 
managed,  it  is,  of  course,  concealed  at  every  step  from 
observation.  To  show  that  certain  movements  might 
possibly  be  effected  in  a  certain  way  is  very  far  from 
showing  that  they  are  actually  so  effected.  There  may 
be  an  infinity  of  other  methods  by  which  the  same 

19 


Maelzel's  Chess-Play er 

results  may  be  obtained.  The  probability  of  the  one 
assumed  proving  the  correct  one  is,  then,  as  unity  to 
infinity.  But,  in  reality,  this  particular  point,  the 
shifting  of  the  partitions,  is  of  no  consequence  what 
ever.  It  was  altogether  unnecessary  to  devote  seven 
or  eight  pages  for  the  purpose  of  proving  what  no  one 
in  his  senses  would  deny,  viz.,  that  the  wonderful  me 
chanical  genius  of  Baron  Kempelen  could  invent  the 
necessary  means  for  shutting  a  door  or  slipping  aside 
a  panel,  with  a  human  agent,  too,  at  his  service  in 
actual  contact  with  the  panel  or  the  door,  and  the 
whole  operations  carried  on,  as  the  author  of  the  essay 
himself  shows,  and  as  we  shall  attempt  to  show  more 
fully  hereafter,  entirely  out  of  reach  of  the  observa 
tion  of  the  spectators. 

In  attempting,  ourselves,  an  explanation  of  the  Au 
tomaton,  we  will,  in  the  first  place,  endeavor  to  show 
how  its  operations  are  effected,  and  afterward  describe, 
as  briefly  as  possible,  the  nature  of  the  observations 
from  which  we  have  deduced  our  result. 

It  will  be  necessary  for  a  proper  understanding  of 
the  subject,  that  we  repeat  here,  in  a  few  words,  the 
routine  adopted  by  the  exhibitor  in  disclosing  the  in 
terior  of  the  box — a  routine  from  which  he  never  de 
viates  in  any  material  particular.  In  the  first  place, 
he  opens  the  door  No.  i.  Leaving  this  open,  he  goes 
round  to  the  rear  of  the  box  and  opens  a  door  pre 
cisely  at  the  back  of  door  No.  i.  To  this  back  door 

20 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

he  holds  a  lighted  candle.  He  then  closes  the  back 
door,  locks  it,  and,  coming  round  to  the  front,  opens 
the  drawer  to  its  full  extent.  This  done,  he  opens  the 
doors  No.  2  and  No.  3  (the  folding-doors),  and  dis 
plays  the  interior  of  the  main  compartment.  Leaving 
open  the  main  compartment,  the  drawer,  and  the  front 
door  of  cupboard  No.  i,  he  now  goes  to  the  rear  again 
and  throws  open  the  back  door  of  the  main  compart 
ment.  In  shutting  up  the  box  no  particular  order  is 
observed,  except  that  the  folding-doors  are  always 
closed  before  the  drawer. 

Now,  let  us  suppose  that  when  the  machine  is  first 
rolled  into  the  presence  of  the  spectators  a  man  is 
already  within  it.  His  body  is  situated  behind  the 
dense  machinery  in  cupboard  No.  i  (the  rear  portion 
of  which  machinery  is  so  contrived  as  to  slip  en  masse 
from  the  main  compartment  to  the  cupboard  No.  i,  as 
occasion  may  require),  and  his  legs  lie  at  full  length 
in  the  main  compartment.  When  Maelzel  opens  the 
door  No.  i,  the  man  within  is  not  in  any  danger  of 
discovery,  for  the  keenest  eye  cannot  penetrate  more 
than  about  two  inches  into  the  darkness  within.  But 
the  case  is  otherwise  when  the  back  door  of  the  cup 
board  No.  i  is  opened.  A  bright  light  then  pervades 
the  cupboard,  and  the  body  of  the  man  would  be  dis 
covered  if  it  were  there.  But  it  is  not.  The  putting 
the  key  in  the  lock  of  the  back  door  was  a  signal,  on 
hearing  which  the  person  concealed  brought  his  body 

21 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

forward  to  an  angle  as  acute  as  possible,  throwing  it 
altogether,  or  nearly  so,  into  the  main  compartment. 
This,  however,  is  a  painful  position  and  cannot  be  long 
maintained.  Accordingly,  we  find  that  Maelzel  closes 
the  back  door.  This  being  done,  there  is  no  reason 
why  the  body  of  the  man  may  not  resume  its  former 
situation,  for  the  cupboard  is  again  so  dark  as  to  defy 
scrutiny.  The  drawer  is  now  opened,  and  the  legs  of 
the  person  within  drop  down  behind  it  in  the  space  it 
formerly  occupied.1  There  is,  consequently,  now  no 
longer  any  part  of  the  man  in  the  main  compartment, 
his  body  being  behind  the  machinery  in  cupboard  No. 
i,  and  his  legs  in  the  space  occupied  by  the  drawer. 
The  exhibitor,  therefore,  finds  himself  at  liberty  to  dis 
play  the  main  compartment.  This  he  does,  opening 
both  its  back  and  front  doors,  and  no  person  is  dis 
covered.  The  spectators  are  now  satisfied  that  the 
whole  of  the  box  is  exposed  to  view,  and  exposed,  too, 
all  portions  of  it  at  one  and  the  same  time.  But,  of 
course,  this  is  not  the  case.  They  neither  see  the 
space  behind  the  drawer  nor  the  interior  of  cupboard 
No.  i,  the  front  door  of  which  latter  the  exhibitor 
virtually  shuts  in  shutting  its  back  door.  Maelzel,  hav 
ing  now  rolled  the  machine  around,  lifted  up  the  dra- 


1  Sir  David  Brewster  supposes  that  there  is  always  a  large  space  behind  this 
drawer  even  when  shut — in  other  words,  that  the  drawer  is  a  "  false  drawer," 
and  does  not  extend  to  the  back  of  the  box.  But  the  idea  is  altogether  un 
tenable.  So  commonplace  a  trick  would  be  immediately  discovered,  espe 
cially  as  the  drawer  is  always  opened  to  its  full  extent,  and  an  opportunity 
thus  offered  of  comparing  its  depth  with  that  of  the  box. 

22 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

pery  of  the  Turk,  opened  the  doors  in  its  back  and 
thigh,  and  shown  his  trunk  to  be  full  of  machinery, 
brings  the  whole  back  into  its  original  position  and 
closes  the  doors.  The  man  within  is  now  at  liberty  to 
move  about.  He  gets  up  into  the  body  of  the  Turk 
just  so  high  as  to  bring  his  eyes  above  the  level  of  the 
chess-board.  It  is  very  probable  that  he  seats  himself 
upon  the  little  square  block  or  protuberance  which  is 
seen  in  a  corner  of  the  main  compartment  when  the 
doors  are  open.  In  this  position  he  sees  the  chess 
board  through  the  bosom  of  the  Turk,  which  is  of 
gauze.  Bringing  his  right  arm  across  his  breast,  he 
actuates  the  little  machinery  necessary  to  guide  the 
left  arm  and  the  fingers  of  the  figure.  This  machin 
ery  is  situated  just  beneath  the  left  shoulder  of  the 
Turk,  and  is  consequently  easily  reached  by  the  right 
hand  of  the  man  concealed,  if  we  suppose  his  right 
arm  brought  across  the  breast.  The  motion  of  the 
head  and  eyes,  and  of  the  right  arm  of  the  figure,  as 
well  as  the  sound  "  echec"  are  produced  by  other  mech 
anism  in  the  interior,  and  actuated  at  will  by  the  man 
within.  The  whole  of  this  mechanism,  that  is  to  say, 
all  the  mechanism  essential  to  the  machine,  is  most 
probably  contained  within  the  little  cupboard  (of  about 
six  inches  in  breadth)  partitioned  off  at  the  right  (the 
spectators'  right)  of  the  main  compartment. 

In  this  analysis  of  the  operations  of  the  Automaton 
we  have  purposely  avoided  any  allusion  to  the  manner 

23 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

in  which  the  partitions  are  shifted,  and  it  will  now  be 
readily  comprehended  that  this  point  is  a  matter  of 
no  importance,  since,  by  mechanism  within  the  ability 
of  any  common  carpenter,  it  might  be  effected  in  an 
infinity  of  different  ways,  and  since  we  have  shown 
that,  however  performed,  it  is  performed  out  of  the 
view  of  the  spectators.  Our  result  is  founded  upon 
the  following  observations  taken  during  frequent  visits 
to  the  exhibition  of  Maelzel.1 

1.  The  moves  of  the  Turk  are  not  made  at  regular 
intervals  of  time,  but  accommodate  themselves  to  the 
moves  of  the  antagonist,  although  this  point  (of  regu 
larity),  so  important  in  all  kinds  of  mechanical  con 
trivance,  might  have  been  readily  brought  about  by 
limiting  the  time  allowed  for  the  moves  of  the  antag 
onist.     For  example,  if  this  limit  were  three  minutes, 
the  moves  of  the  Automaton  might  be  made  at  any 
given  intervals  longer  than  three  minutes.     The  fact, 
then,  of  irregularity,  when  regularity  might  have  been 
so  easily  attained,  goes  to  prove  that  regularity  is  un 
important  to  the  action  of  the  Automaton;  in  other 
words,  that  the  Automaton  is  not  a  pure  machine. 

2.  When  the  Automaton  is  about  to  move  a  piece, 
a  distinct  motion  is  observable  just  beneath  the  left 

1  Some  of  these  observations  are  intended  merely  to  prove  that  the  machine 
must  be  regulated  by  mind,  and  it  may  be  thought  a  work  of  supererogation 
to  advance  further  arguments  in  support  of  what  has  been  already  fully  de 
cided.  But  our  object  is  to  convince,  in  especial,  certain  of  our  friends  upon 
whom  a  train  of  suggestive  reasoning  will  have  more  influence  than  the  most 
positive  a  priori  demonstration. 

24 


Maelzel's  Chess- Player 

shoulder,  and  which  motion  agitates  in  a  slight  degree 
the  drapery  covering  the  front  of  the  left  shoulder. 
This  motion  invariably  precedes,  by  about  two  sec 
onds,  the  movement  of  the  arm  itself;  and  the  arm 
never,  in  any  instance,  moves  without  this  preparatory 
motion  in  the  shoulder.  Now,  let  the  antagonist  move 
a  piece,  and  let  the  corresponding  move  be  made  by 
Maelzel,  as  usual,  upon  the  board  of  the  Automaton. 
Then  let  the  antagonist  narrowly  watch  the  Autom 
aton  until  he  detect  the  preparatory  motion  in  the 
shoulder.  Immediately  upon  detecting  this  motion, 
and  before  the  arm  itself  begins  to  move,  let  him 
withdraw  his  piece,  as  if  perceiving  an  error  in  his 
manoeuvre.  It  will  then  be  seen  that  the  movement 
of  the  arm,  which,  in  all  other  cases,  immediately 
succeeds  the  motion  in  the  shoulder,  is  withheld,  is 
not  made,  although  Maelzel  has  not  yet  performed,  on 
the  board  of  the  Automaton,  any  move  corresponding 
to  the  withdrawal  of  the  antagonist.  In  this  case,  that 
the  Automaton  was  about  to  move  is  evident;  and 
that  he  did  not  move  was  an  effect  plainly  produced 
by  the  withdrawal  of  the  antagonist  and  without  any 
intervention  of  Maelzel. 

This  fact  fully  proves  (i)  that  the  intervention  of 
Maelzel,  in  performing  the  moves  of  the  antagonist 
on  the  board  of  the  Automaton,  is  not  essential  to  the 
movements  of  the  Automaton;  (2)  that  its  move 
ments  are  regulated  by  mind,  by  some  person  who 

25 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

sees  the  board  of  the  antagonist;  (3)  that  its  move 
ments  are  not  regulated  by  the  mind  of  Maelzel,  whose 
back  was  turned  toward  the  antagonist  at  the  with 
drawal  of  his  move. 

3.  The  Automaton  does  not  invariably  win  the 
game.     Were  the  machine  a  pure  machine,  this  would 
not  be  the  case — it  would  always  win.     The  principle 
being  discovered  by  which  a  machine  can  be  made  to 
play  a  game  of  chess,  an  extension  of  the  same  prin 
ciple  would  enable  it  to  win  a  game ;  a  further  exten 
sion  would  enable  it  to  win  all  games,  that  is,  to  beat 
any  possible  game  of  an  antagonist.     A  little  considera 
tion  will  convince  any  one  that  the  difficulty  of  mak 
ing  a  machine  beat  all  games  is  not  in  the  least  degree 
greater,  as  regards  the  principle   of  the  operations 
necessary,  than  that  of  making  it  beat  a  single  game. 
If,  then,  we  regard  the  Chess-Player  as  a  machine,  we 
must  suppose  (what  is  highly  improbable)  that  its  in 
ventor  preferred  leaving  it  incomplete  to  perfecting  it, 
— a  supposition  rendered  still  more  absurd  when  we 
reflect  that  the  leaving  it  incomplete  would  afford  an 
argument  against  the  possibility  of  its  being  a  pure 
machine,  the  very  argument  we  now  adduce. 

4.  When  the  situation  of  the  game  is  difficult  or 
complex,  we  never  perceive  the  Turk  either  shake  his 
head  or  roll  his  eyes.     It  is  only  when  his  next  move 
is  obvious,  or  when  the  game  is  so  circumstanced  that 
to  a  man  in  the  Automaton's  place  there  would  be  no 

26 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

necessity  for  reflection.  Now,  these  peculiar  move 
ments  of  the  head  and  eyes  are  movements  custom 
ary  with  persons  engaged  in  meditation,  and  the 
ingenious  Baron  Kempelen  would  have  adapted  these 
movements  (were  the  machine  a  pure  machine)  to 
occasions  proper  for  their  display,  that  is,  to  occasions 
of  complexity.  But  the  reverse  is  seen  to  be  the  case, 
and  this  reverse  applies  precisely  to  our  supposition  of 
a  man  in  the  interior.  When  engaged  in  meditation 
about  the  game  he  has  no  time  to  think  of  setting  in 
motion  the  mechanism  of  the  Automaton  by  which  are 
moved  the  head  and  the  eyes.  When  the  game,  how 
ever,  is  obvious,  he  has  time  to  look  about  him,  and, 
accordingly,  we  see  the  head  shake  and  the  eyes 
roll. 

5.  When  the  machine  is  rolled  round  to  allow  the 
spectators  an  examination  of  the  back  of  the  Turk, 
and  when  his  drapery  is  lifted  up  and  the  doors  in  the 
trunk  and  thigh  thrown  open,  the  interior  of  the 
trunk  is  seen  to  be  crowded  with  machinery.  In 
scrutinizing  this  machinery  while  the  Automaton  was 
in  motion,  that  is  to  say,  while  the  whole  machine  was 
moving  on  the  castors,  it  appeared  to  us  that  cer 
tain  portions  of  the  mechanism  changed  their  shape 
and  position  in  a  degree  too  great  to  be  accounted  for 
by  the  simple  laws  of  perspective;  and  subsequent 
examinations  convinced  us  that  these  undue  altera 
tions  were  attributable  to  mirrors  in  the  interior  of  the 

27 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

trunk.  The  introduction  of  mirrors  among  the  ma 
chinery  could  not  have  been  intended  to  influence,  in 
any  degree,  the  machinery  itself.  Their  operation, 
whatever  that  operation  should  prove  to  be,  must 
necessarily  have  reference  to  the  eye  of  the  spectator. 
We  at  once  concluded  that  these  mirrors  were  so 
placed  to  multiply  to  the  vision  some  few  pieces  of 
machinery  within  the  trunk  so  as  to  give  it  the  appear 
ance  of  being  crowded  with  mechanism.  Now,  the 
direct  inference  from  this  is  that  the  machine  is  not 
a  pure  machine.  For  if  it  were,  the  inventor,  so  far 
from  wishing  its  mechanism  to  appear  complex,  and 
using  deception  for  the  purpose  of  giving  it  this 
appearance,  would  have  been  especially  desirous  of 
convincing  those  who  witnessed  his  exhibition,  of  the 
simplicity  of  the  means  by  which  results  so  wonderful 
were  brought  about. 

6.  The  external  appearance,  and,  especially,  the  de 
portment  of  the  Turk,  are,  when  we  consider  them  as 
imitations  of  life,  but  very  indifferent  imitations.  The 
countenance  evinces  no  ingenuity,  and  is  surpassed,  in 
its  resemblance  to  the  human  face,  by  the  very  com 
monest  of  waxworks.  The  eyes  roll  unnaturally  in 
the  head,  without  any  corresponding  motions  of  the 
lids  or  brows.  The  arm,  particularly,  performs  its 
operations  in  an  exceedingly  stiff,  awkward,  jerking, 
and  rectangular  manner.  Now,  all  this  is  the  result 
either  of  inability  in  Maelzel  to  do  better,  or  of  inten- 

28 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

tional  neglect,  accidental  neglect  being  out  of  the 
question,  when  we  consider  that  the  whole  time  of 
the  ingenious  proprietor  is  occupied  in  the  improve 
ment  of  his  machines.  Most  assuredly  we  must  not 
refer  the  unlife-like  appearances  to  inability,  for  all 
the  rest  of  Maelzel's  automata  are  evidences  of  his  full 
ability  to  copy  the  motions  and  peculiarities  of  life  with 
the  most  wonderful  exactitude.  The  rope-dancers,  for 
example,  are  inimitable.  When  the  clown  laughs,  his 
lips,  his  eyes,  his  eyebrows,  and  eyelids — indeed,  all 
the  features  of  his  countenance — are  imbued  with 
their  appropriate  expressions.  In  both  him  and  his 
companion,  every  gesture  is  so  entirely  easy  and  free 
from  the  semblance  of  artificiality,  that,  were  it  not 
for  the  diminutiveness  of  their  size  and  the  fact  of  their 
being  passed  from  one  spectator  to  another  previous 
to  their  exhibition  on  the  rope,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
convince  any  assemblage  of  persons  that  these  wooden 
automata  were  not  living  creatures.  We  cannot, 
therefore,  doubt  Mr.  Maelzel's  ability,  and  we  must 
necessarily  suppose  that  he  intentionally  suffered  his 
Chess-Player  to  remain  the  same  artificial  and  un 
natural  figure  which  Baron  Kempelen  (no  doubt  also 
through  design)  originally  made  it.  What  this  design 
was  it  is  not  difficult  to  conceive.  Were  the  Autom 
aton  lifelike  in  its  motions,  the  spectator  would  be 
more  apt  to  attribute  its  operations  to  their  true  cause 
(that  is,  to  human  agency  within)  than  he  is  now, 

29 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

when  the  awkward  and  rectangular  manoeuvres  con 
vey  the  idea  of  pure  and  unaided  mechanism. 

7.  When,  a  short  time  previous  to  the  commence 
ment  of  the  game,  the  Automaton  is  wound  up  by  the 
exhibitor  as  usual,  an  ear  in  any  degree  accustomed  to 
the  sounds  produced  in  winding  up  a  system  of  ma 
chinery  will  not  fail  to  discover,  instantaneously,  that 
the  axis  turned  by  the  key  in  the  box  of  the  Chess- 
Player  cannot  possibly  be  connected  with  either  a 
weight,  a  spring,  or  any  system  of  machinery  what 
ever.    The  inference  here  is  the  same  as  in  our  last 
observation.     The  winding  up  is  inessential  to  the  op 
erations  of  the  Automaton,  and  is  performed  with  the 
design  of  exciting  in  the  spectators  the  false  idea  of 
mechanism. 

8.  When  the  question  is  demanded  explicitly  of 
Maelzel,  "  Is  the  Automaton  a  pure  machine  or  not  ?  " 
his  reply  is  invariably  the  same :  "  I  will  say  nothing 
about  it."    Now,  the  notoriety  of  the  Automaton,  and 
the  great  curiosity  it  has  everywhere  excited,  are  owing 
more  especially  to  the  prevalent  opinion  that  it  is  a 
pure  machine  than  to  any  other  circumstance.     Of 
course,  then,  it  is  the  interest  of  the  proprietor  to  rep 
resent  it  as  a  pure  machine.    And  what  more  obvious 
and  more  effectual  method  could  there  be  of  impress 
ing  the  spectators  with  this  desired  idea,  than  a  posi 
tive  and  explicit  declaration  to  that  effect  ?     On  the 
other  hand,  what  more  obvious  and  effectual  method 

30 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

could  there  be  of  exciting  a  disbelief  in  the  Automaton's 
being  a  pure  machine  than  by  withholding  such  ex 
plicit  declaration  ?  For  people  will  naturally  reason 
thus :  It  is  Maelzel's  interest  to  represent  this  thing  a 
pure  machine ;  he  refuses  to  do  so,  directly,  in  words, 
although  he  does  not  scruple,  and  is  evidently  anxious, 
to  do  so  indirectly  by  actions;  were  it  actually  what 
he  wishes  to  represent  it  by  actions,  he  would  gladly 
avail  himself  of  the  more  direct  testimony  of  words; 
the  inference  is,  that  the  consciousness  of  its  not 
being  a  pure  machine  is  the  reason  of  his  silence ;  his 
actions  cannot  implicate  him  in  a  falsehood,  his 
words  may. 

9.  When,  in  exhibiting  the  interior  of  the  box, 
Maelzel  has  thrown  open  the  door  No.  i  and  also  the 
door  immediately  behind  it,  he  holds  a  lighted  candle 
at  the  back  door  (as  before  mentioned)  and  moves  the 
entire  machine  to  and  fro  with  a  view  of  convincing 
the  company  that  the  cupboard  No.  i  is  entirely  filled 
with  machinery.  When  the  machine  is  thus  moved 
about,  it  will  be  apparent  to  any  careful  observer  that, 
whereas  that  portion  of  the  machinery  near  the  front 
door  No.  i  is  perfectly  steady  and  unwavering,  the  por 
tion  farther  within  fluctuates,  in  a  very  slight  degree, 
with  the  movements  of  the  machine.  This  circum 
stance  first  aroused  in  us  the  suspicion  that  the  more 
remote  portion  of  the  machinery  was  so  arranged  as  to 
be  easily  slipped,  en  masse,  from  its  position  when 

31 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

occasion  should  require  it.  This  occasion  we  have 
already  stated  to  occur  when  the  man  concealed  within 
brings  his  body  into  an  erect  position  upon  the  closing 
of  the  back  door. 

10.  Sir  David  Brewster  states  the  figure  of  the  Turk 
to  be  of  the  size  of  life,  but,  in  fact,  it  is  far  above  the 
ordinary  size.     Nothing  is  more  easy  than  to  err  in  our 
notions  of  magnitude.     The  body  of  the  Automaton  is 
generally  insulated,  and,  having  no  means  of  imme 
diately  comparing  it  with  any  human  form,  we  suffer 
ourselves  to  consider  it  as  of  ordinary  dimensions. 
This  mistake  may,  however,  be  corrected  by  observing 
the  Chess-Player  when,  as  is  sometimes  the  case,  the 
exhibitor  approaches  it.     Mr.  Maelzel,  to  be  sure,  is  not 
very  tall,  but  upon  drawing  near  the  machine  his  head 
will  be  found  at  least  eighteen  inches  below  the  head 
of  the  Turk,  although  the  latter,  it  will  be  remembered, 
is  in  a  sitting  position. 

11.  The   box,   behind   which   the   Automaton   is 
placed,  is  precisely  three  feet  six  inches  long,  two  feet 
four  inches  deep,  and  two  feet  six  inches  high.     These 
dimensions  are  fully  sufficient  for  the  accommodation 
of  a  man  very  much  above  the  common  size ;  and  the 
main  compartment  alone  is  capable  of  holding  any  or 
dinary  man  in  the  position  we  have  mentioned  as 
assumed  by  the  person  concealed.     As  these  are  facts, 
which  any  one  who  doubts  them  may  prove  by  actual 
calculation,  we  deem  it  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon 

32 


Maelzel's  Chess-Play er 

them.  We  will  only  suggest  that,  although  the  top  of 
the  box  is  apparently  a  board  of  about  three  inches  in 
thickness,  the  spectator  may  satisfy  himself  by  stoop 
ing  and  looking  up  at  it  when  the  main  compartment 
is  open,  that  it  is  in  reality  very  thin.  The  height  of 
the  drawer  also  will  be  misconceived  by  those  who  ex 
amine  it  in  a  cursory  manner.  There  is  a  space  of 
about  three  inches  between  the  top  of  the  drawer  as 
seen  from  the  exterior  and  the  bottom  of  the  cupboard, 
a  space  which  must  be  included  in  the  height  of  the 
drawer.  These  contrivances  to  make  the  room  within 
the  box  appear  less  than  it  actually  is  are  referable  to 
a  design  on  the  part  of  the  inventor  to  impress  the 
company  again  with  a  false  idea,  viz.,  that  no  human 
being  can  be  accommodated  within  the  box. 

12.  The  interior  of  the  main  compartment  is  lined 
throughout  with  cloth.  This  cloth  we  suppose  to  have 
a  twofold  object.  A  portion  of  it  may  form,  when 
tightly  stretched,  the  only  partitions  which  there  is  any 
necessity  for  removing  during  the  changes  of  the  man's 
position,  viz.,  the  partition  between  the  rear  of  the 
main  compartment  and  the  rear  of  cupboard  No.  i, 
and  the  partition  between  the  main  compartment  and 
the  space  behind  the  drawer  when  open.  If  we  im 
agine  this  to  be  the  case,  the  difficulty  of  shifting  the 
partitions  vanishes  at  once,  if,  indeed,  any  such  diffi 
culty  could  be  supposed  under  any  circumstances  to 
exist.  The  second  object  of  the  cloth  is  to  deaden  and 

VOL.  X.— 3,  .5 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

render  indistinct  all  sounds  occasioned  by  the  move 
ments  of  the  person  within. 

13.  The  antagonist  (as  we  have  before  observed) 
is  not  suffered  to  play  at  the  board  of  the  Automaton, 
but  is  seated  at  some  distance  from  the  machine.     The 
reason  which,  most  probably,  would  be  assigned  for 
this  circumstance,  if  the  question  were  demanded,  is, 
that  were  the  antagonist  otherwise  situated,  his  person 
would  intervene  between  the  machine  and  the  specta 
tors  and  preclude  the  latter  from  a  distinct  view.     But 
this  difficulty  might  be  easily  obviated,  either  by  ele 
vating  the  seats  of  the  company,  or  by  turning  the  end 
of  the  box  toward  them  during  the  game.     The  true 
cause  of  the  restriction  is,  perhaps,  very  different. 
Were  the  antagonist  seated  in  contact  with  the  box, 
the  secret  would  be  liable  to  discovery,  by  his  detect 
ing,  with  the  aid  of  a  quick  ear,  the  breathings  of  the 
man  concealed. 

14.  Although  M.  Maelzel,  in  disclosing  the  interior 
of  the  machine,  sometimes  slightly  deviates  from  the 
routine  which  we  have  pointed  out,  yet  never  in  any 
instance  does  he  so  deviate  from  it  as  to  interfere  with 
our  solution.     For  example,  he  has  been  known  to 
open,  first  of  all,  the  drawer,  but  he  never  opens  the 
main  compartment  without  first  closing  the  back  door 
of  cupboard  No.  i ;  he  never  opens  the  main  compart 
ment  without  first  pulling  out  the  drawer;   he  never 
shuts  the  drawer  without  first  shutting  the  main  com- 

34 


Maelzel's  Chess-Play er 

partment;  he  never  opens  the  back  door  of  cupboard 
No.  i  while  the  main  compartment  is  open,  and  the 
game  of  chess  is  never  commenced  until  the  whole 
machine  is  closed.  Now,  if  it  were  observed  that  never, 
in  any  single  instance,  did  M.  Maelzel  differ  from  the 
routine  we  have  pointed  out  as  necessary  to  our  solu 
tion,  it  would  be  one  of  the  strongest  possible  argu 
ments  in  corroboration  of  it ;  but  the  argument  becomes 
infinitely  stengthened  if  we  duly  consider  the  circum 
stance  that  he  does  occasionally  deviate  from  the 
routine,  but  never  does  so  deviate  as  to  falsify  the 
solution. 

15.  There  are  six  candles  on  the  board  of  the  Au 
tomaton  during  exhibition.  The  question  naturally 
arises :  "  Why  are  so  many  employed,  when  a  single 
candle,  or,  at  farthest,  two,  would  have  been  amply 
sufficient  to  afford  the  spectators  a  clear  view  of  the 
board  in  a  room  otherwise  so  well  lit  up  as  the  exhibi 
tion  room  always  is;  when,  moreover,  if  we  suppose 
the  machine  a  pure  machine,  there  can  be  no  neces 
sity  for  so  much  light,  or,  indeed,  any  light  at  all,  to 
enable  it  to  perform  its  operations;  and  when,  espe 
cially,  only  a  single  candle  is  placed  upon  the  table  of 
the  antagonist  ?  "  The  first  and  most  obvious  infer 
ence  is,  that  so  strong  a  light  is  requisite  to  enable  the 
man  within  to  see  through  the  transparent  material 
(probably  fine  gauze)  of  which  the  breast  of  the  Turk 
is  composed.  But  when  we  consider  the  arrangement 

35 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

of  the  candles,  another  reason  immediately  presents 
itself.  There  are  six  lights  (as  we  have  said  before)  in 
all.  Three  of  these  are  on  each  side  of  the  figure. 
Those  most  remote  from  the  spectators  are  the  longest, 
those  in  the  middle  are  about  two  inches  shorter,  and 
those  nearest  the  company  about  two  inches  shorter 
still,  and  the  candles  on  one  side  differ  in  height  from 
the  candles  respectively  opposite  on  the  other  by  a 
ratio  different  from  two  inches;  that  is  to  say,  the 
longest  candle  on  one  side  is  about  three  inches  shorter 
than  the  longest  candle  on  the  other,  and  so  on.  Thus 
it  will  be  seen  that  no  two  of  the  candles  are  of  the 
same  height,  and  thus  also  the  difficulty  of  ascertain 
ing  the  material  of  the  breast  of  the  figure  (against 
which  the  light  is  especially  directed)  is  greatly  aug 
mented  by  the  dazzling  effect  of  the  complicated  cross 
ings  of  the  rays,  crossings  which  are  brought  about 
by  placing  the  centres  of  radiation  all  upon  different 
levels. 

16.  While  the  Chess-Player  was  in  possession  of 
Baron  Kempelen,  it  was  more  than  once  observed, 
first,  that  an  Italian  in  the  suite  of  the  Baron  was  never 
visible  during  the  playing  of  a  game  at  chess  by  the 
Turk,  and,  secondly,  that,  the  Italian  being  taken  seri 
ously  ill,  the  exhibition  was  suspended  until  his  recov 
ery.  This  Italian  professed  a  total  ignorance  of  the 
game  of  chess,  although  all  others  of  the  suite  played 
well.  Similar  observations  have  been  made  since  the 

36 


Ill 

* 


Maelzel's  Chess-Play er 


of  the  canflif,  another  reaaon  immediately  presents 
itself.  There  are  six  lights  (as  we  have  said  before)  in 
all.  Three  of  these  are  on  each  side  of  the  figure. 
Those  most  remote  ftem  the  spectators  are  the  longest, 
those  in  the  tmddie  are  about  two  inches  shorter,  and 
those  nearest  the  company  about  two  inches  shorter 
still,  and  the  candles  on  one  side  differ  in  height  from 
the  caudles  mpectively  opposite  on  the  other  by  a 
ratio  different  from  two  inches;  that  is  to  say,  the 
longest  candle  on  one  side  is  about  three  inches  shorter 
than  the  longest  candle  on  the  other,  and  so  on.  Thus 
it  will  be  se^^tg^lgggO^^i^v^jg^^are  of 
same  height,  and  thus  also  the  difficulty  of  ascertain 
ing  the  material  of  the  breast  of  the  figure  (against 
which  the  light  to  especially  directed)  is  greatly  aug 
mented  by  teiwttftt  dtart  of  the  complicated  craft 
ings  of  th*  '  ****  *M*  «*  brought  about 
by  placing  tfee  e*****  **  fttittftMl  ail  upon  different 
levels. 

16.  WhS«  tfcs  OwiS-Player  was  in  possession  of 
Baron  Kempelen,  it  was  more  than  once  observed, 
first,  that  an  Italian  in  the  suite  of  the  Baron  was  never 
visible  during  the  playing  of  a  game  at  chess  by  the 
Turk,  Mid,  secondly,  that,  the  Italian  being  taken  seri 
ously  ill,  the  f  xhibition  was  suspended  until  his  recov 
ery.  This  ttftttaa  pretested  a  total  ignorance  of  the 
gam*  of  <&•*«,  afefcMf*  all  others  of  the  suite  played 
wdL  aMtar  otofrvm&ot*  have  been  made  since  the 


Maelzel's  Chess-Player 

Automaton  has  been  purchased  by  Maelzel.  There  is 
a  man,  Schlumberger,  who  attends  him  wherever  he 
goes,  but  who  has  no  ostensible  occupation  other  than 
that  of  assisting  in  the  packing  and  unpacking  of  the 
Automaton.  This  man  is  about  the  medium  size,  and 
has  a  remarkable  stoop  in  the  shoulders.  Whether  he 
professes  to  play  chess  or  not,  we  are  not  informed.  It 
is  quite  certain,  however,  that  he  is  never  to  be  seen 
during  the  exhibition  of  the  Chess-Player,  although 
frequently  visible  just  before  and  just  after  the  exhibi 
tion.  Moreover,  some  years  ago  Maelzel  visited  Rich 
mond  with  his  automata,  and  exhibited  them,  we 
believe,  in  the  house  now  occupied  by  M.  Bossieux 
as  a  dancing  academy.  Schlumberger  was  suddenly 
taken  ill,  and  during  his  illness  there  was  no  exhibition 
of  the  Chess-Player.  These  facts  are  well  known  to 
many  of  our  citizens.  The  reason  assigned  for  the 
suspension  of  the  Chess-Player's  performances  was  not 
the  illness  of  Schlumberger.  The  inferences  from  all 
this  we  leave,  without  farther  comment,  to  the  reader. 
17.  The  Turk  plays  with  his  left  arm.  A  circum 
stance  so  remarkable  cannot  be  accidental.  Brewster 
takes  no  notice  of  it  whatever  beyond  a  mere  state 
ment,  we  believe,  that  such  is  the  fact.  The  early 
writers  of  treatises  on  the  Automaton  seem  not  to  have 
observed  the  matter  at  all,  and  have  no  reference  to  it. 
The  author  of  the  pamphlet  alluded  to  by  Brewster  men 
tions  it,  but  acknowledges  his  inability  to  account  for 

37 


Maelzel's  Chess-Play er 

it.  Yet  it  is  obviously  from  such  prominent  discrep 
ancies  or  incongruities  as  this  that  deductions  are  to 
be  made  (if  made  at  all)  which  shall  lead  us  to  the 
truth. 

The  circumstance  of  the  Automaton's  playing  with 
his  left  hand  cannot  have  connection  with  the  opera 
tions  of  the  machine,  considered  merely  as  such.  Any 
mechanical  arrangement  which  would  cause  the  figure 
to  move,  in  any  given  manner,  the  left  arm,  could,  if 
reversed,  cause  it  to  move,  in  the  same  manner,  the 
right.  But  these  principles  cannot  be  extended  to  the 
human  organization,  wherein  there  is  a  marked  and 
radical  difference  in  the  construction,  and,  at  all  events, 
in  the  powers,  of  the  right  and  left  arms.  Reflecting 
upon  this  latter  fact,  we  naturally  refer  the  incon 
gruity  noticeable  hi  the  Chess-Player  to  this  peculiarity 
hi  the  human  organization.  If  so,  we  must  imagine 
some  reversion,  for  the  Chess-Player  plays  precisely  as 
a  man  would  not.  These  ideas,  once  entertained,  are 
sufficient  of  themselves  to  suggest  the  notion  of  a  man 
in  the  interior.  A  few  more  imperceptible  steps  lead 
us  finally  to  the  result.  The  Automaton  plays  with  his 
left  arm,  because  under  no  other  circumstances  could 
the  man  within  play  with  his  right — a  desideratum,  of 
course.  Let  us,  for  example,  imagine  the  Automaton 
to  play  with  his  right  arm.  To  reach  the  machinery 
which  moves  the  arm,  and  which  we  have  before  ex 
plained  to  lie  just  beneath  the  shoulder,  it  would  be 

38 


Maelzel's  Chess-Play er 

necessary  for  the  man  within  either  to  use  his  right 
arm  in  an  exceedingly  painful  and  awkward  position 
(viz.,  brought  up  close  to  his  body  and  tightly  com 
pressed  between  his  body  and  the  side  of  the  Autom 
aton),  or  else  to  use  his  left  arm  brought  across  his 
breast.  In  neither  case  could  he  act  with  the  requi 
site  ease  or  precision.  On  the  contrary,  the  Autom 
aton  playing,  as  it  actually  does,  with  the  left  arm,  all 
difficulties  vanish.  The  right  arm  of  the  man  within 
is  brought  across  his  breast,  and  his  right  fingers  act, 
without  any  constraint,  upon  the  machinery  in  the 
shoulder  of  the  figure. 

We  do  not  believe  that  any  reasonable  objections 
can  be  urged  against  this  solution  of  the  Automaton 
Chess-Player. 


39 


Prefaces  to  "The  Concholo- 
gist's  First  Book"1 

FIRST  EDITION,  1839 

E  term  "  Malacology,"  an  abbreviation  of 
"  Malacozoology,"  from  the  Greek  ^oka- 
nog  (soft),  Co5o^  (an  animal),  and  AGIOS'  (a 
discourse),  was  first  employed  by  the  French  naturalist 
De  Blainville  to  designate  an  important  division  of 
Natural  History,  in  which  the  leading  feature  of  the 
animals  discussed  was  the  softness  of  the  flesh,  or,  to 
speak  with  greater  accuracy,  of  the  general  envelop. 
This  division  comprehends  not  only  the  Mollusca,  but 


1  The  full  title  is  "  The  Conchologist's  First  Book :  a  System  of  Testaceous 
Malacology,  arranged  expressly  for  the  use  of  schools ;  in  which  the  animals, 
according  to  Cuvier,  are  given  with  the  shells,  a  great  number  of  new  species 
added,  and  the  whole  brought  up,  as  accurately  as  possible,  to  the  present  con 
dition  of  the  science.  By  Edgar  A.  Poe.  Second  edition.  With  illustrations 
of  two  hundred  and  fifteen  shells,  presenting  a  correct  type  of  each  genus. 
Philadelphia:  Published  for  the  Author  by  Haswell,  Barrington,  &  Haswell, 
and  for  sale  by  the  principal  booksellers  in  the  United  States."  [First  edition. 
1839;  second  edition,  1840;  both  prefaces  signed  "  E.  A.  P."] 

40 


" The  Conchologist's  First  Book" 

also  the  Testacea  of  Aristotle  and  Pliny,  and,  of  course, 
had  reference  to  molluscous  animals  in  general,  of 
which  the  greater  portion  have  shells. 

A  treatise  concerning  the  shells,  exclusively,  of  this 
greater  portion,  is  termed,  in  accordance  with  general 
usage,  a  "Treatise  upon  Conchology  or  Conchyliology" ; 
although  the  word  is  somewhat  improperly  applied,  as 
the  Greek  conchyllon,  from  which  it  is  derived,  em 
braces  in  its  signification  both  the  animal  and  shell. 
Ostracology  would  have  been  more  definite. 

The  common  works  upon  this  subject,  however,  will 
appear  to  every  person  of  science  very  essentially  de 
fective,  inasmuch  as  the  relation  of  the  animal  and 
shell,  with  their  dependence  upon  each  other,  is  a 
radically  important  consideration  in  the  examination  of 
either.  Neither,  in  the  attempt  to  obviate  this  diffi 
culty,  is  a  work  upon  Malacology  at  large  necessarily 
included.  Shells,  it  is  true,  form,  and  for  many  obvi 
ous  reasons  will  continue  to  form,  the  subject  of  chief 
interest,  whether  with  regard  to  the  school  or  the 
cabinet ;  still,  there  is  no  good  reason  why  a  book  upon 
Conchology  (using  the  common  term)  may  not  be 
malacological  as  far  as  it  proceeds. 

In  this  view  of  the  subject  the  present  little  work  is 
offered  to  the  public.  Beyond  the  ruling  feature, 
that  of  giving  an  anatomical  account  of  each  animal, 
together  with  a  description  of  the  shell  which  it  in 
habits,  I  have  aimed  at  little  more  than  accuracy  and 

41 


"  The  Conchologist's  First  Book  " 

simplicity,  as  far  as  the  latter  quality  can  be  thought 
consistent  with  the  rigid  exactions  of  science. 

No  attention  has  been  given  to  the  mere  history  of 
the  subject;  it  is  conceived  that  any  disquisition  on 
this  head  would  more  properly  appertain  to  works  of 
ultimate  research  than  to  one  whose  sole  intention  is 
to  make  the  pupil  acquainted,  in  as  tangible  a  form  as 
possible,  with  results.  To  afford,  at  a  cheap  rate,  a 
concise,  yet  sufficiently  comprehensive,  and  especially 
a  well-illustrated  school-book,  has  been  the  principal 
design. 

In  conclusion,  I  have  only  to  acknowledge  my  great 
indebtedness  to  the  valuable  public  labors,  as  well  as 
private  assistance,  of  Mr.  Isaac  Lea  of  Philadelphia.  To 
Mr.  Thomas  Wyatt  and  his  late  excellent  Manual  of 
Conchologyt  I  am  also  under  many  obligations.  No 
better  work,  perhaps,  could  be  put  into  the  hands  of 
the  student  as  a  secondary  text-book.  Its  beautiful 
and  perfectly  well-colored  illustrations  afford  an  aid 
in  the  collection  of  a  cabinet  scarcely  to  be  met  with 
elsewhere. 

SECOND  EDITION,  1840 

In  issuing  a  second  edition  of  this  "  Conchology  "  in 
so  very  brief  a  period  since  the  publication  of  the  first 
large  impression,  the  author  has  little  more  to  do  than 
to  express  the  high  pleasure  with  which  he  has  seen 

42 


"The  Conchologist's  First  Book" 

his  labors  well  received.  The  success  of  the  work  has 
been  decided ;  and  the  entire  design  has  been  accom 
plished  hi  its  general  introduction  into  schools. 

Many  important  alterations  and  additions  are  now 
made;  errors  of  the  press  carefully  corrected;  many 
more  recently  discovered  American  species  added;  and 
the  work,  upon  the  whole,  is  rendered  more  worthy  of 
public  approbation. 


43 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

the  internal  decoration,  if  not  in  the  exter 
nal  architecture  of  their  residences,  the 
English  are  supreme.  The  Italians  have 
but  little  sentiment  beyond  marbles  and  colors.  In 
France,  meliora  ptobant,  detetiota  seqvantur,  the 
people  are  too  much  a  race  of  gadabouts  to  maintain 
those  household  proprieties  of  which,  indeed,  they  have 
a  delicate  appreciation,  or,  at  least,  the  elements  of  a 
proper  sense.  The  Chinese  and  most  of  the  Eastern 
races  have  a  warm  but  inappropriate  fancy.  The 
Scotch  are  poor  decorists.  The  Dutch  have,  perhaps, 
an  indeterminate  idea  that  a  curtain  is  not  a  cabbage. 
In  Spain  they  are  all  curtains — a  nation  of  hangmen. 
The  Russians  do  not  furnish.  The  Hottentots  and 
Kickapoos  are  very  well  in  their  way.  The  Yankees 
alone  are  preposterous. 

How  this  happens  it  is  not  difficult  to  see.  We  have 
no  aristocracy  of  blood,  and  having,  therefore,  as  a 
natural,  and,  indeed,  as  an  inevitable  thing,  fashioned 

44 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

for  ourselves  an  aristocracy  of  dollars,  the  display  of 
wealth  has  here  to  take  the  place  and  perform  the 
office  of  the  heraldic  display  in  monarchical  countries. 
By  a  transition  readily  understood,  and  which  might 
have  been  as  readily  foreseen,  we  have  been  brought 
to  merge  in  simple  show  our  notions  of  taste  itself. 

To  speak  less  abstractly.  In  England,  for  example, 
no  mere  parade  of  costly  appurtenances  would  be  so 
likely,  as  with  us,  to  create  an  impression  of  the  beauti 
ful  in  respect  to  the  appurtenances  themselves,  or  of 
taste  as  regards  the  proprietor;  this  for  the  reason, 
first,  that  wealth  is  not,  in  England,  the  loftiest  object  of 
ambition  as  constituting  a  nobility ;  and,  secondly,  that 
there,  the  true  nobility  of  blood,  confining  itself  within 
the  strict  limits  of  legitimate  taste,  rather  avoids  than 
affects  that  mere  costliness  in  which  a  parvenu  ri 
valry  may  at  any  time  be  successfully  attempted.  The 
people  will  imitate  the  nobles,  and  the  result  is  a  thor 
ough  diffusion  of  the  proper  feeling.  But  in  America, 
the  coins  current  being  the  sole  arms  of  the  aristoc 
racy,  their  display  may  be  said,  in  general,  to  be  the 
sole  means  of  aristocratic  distinction;  and  the  popu 
lace,  looking  always  upward  for  models,  are  insensibly 
led  to  confound  the  two  entirely  separate  ideas  of  mag 
nificence  and  beauty.  In  short,  the  cost  of  an  article 
of  furniture  has  at  length  come  to  be,  with  us,  nearly 
the  sole  test  of  its  merit  in  a  decorative  point  of  view, 
and  this  test,  once  established,  has  led  the  way  to  many 

45 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

analogous  errors,  readily  traceable  to  the  one  primitive 
folly. 

There  could  be  nothing  more  directly  offensive  to  the 
eye  of  an  artist  than  the  interior  of  what  is  termed 
in  the  United  States,  that  is  to  say,  in  Appalachia,  a 
well-furnished  apartment.  Its  most  usual  defect  is  a 
want  of  keeping.  We  speak  of  the  keeping  of  a  room 
as  we  would  of  the  keeping  of  a  picture,  for  both  the 
picture  and  the  room  are  amenable  to  those  undeviat- 
ing  principles  which  regulate  all  varieties  of  art;  and 
very  nearly  the  same  laws  by  which  we  decide  on  the 
higher  merits  of  a  painting  suffice  for  decision  on  the 
adjustment  of  a  chamber. 

A  want  of  keeping  is  observable  sometimes  in  the 
character  of  the  several  pieces  of  furniture,  but  gen 
erally  in  their  colors  or  modes  of  adaptation  to  use. 
Very  often  the  eye  is  offended  by  their  inartistical 
arrangement.  Straight  lines  are  too  prevalent,  too 
uninterruptedly  continued,  or  clumsily  interrupted  at 
right  angles.  If  curved  lines  occur,  they  are  repeated 
into  unpleasant  uniformity.  By  undue  precision  the 
appearance  of  many  a  fine  apartment  is  utterly 
spoiled. 

Curtains  are  rarely  well  disposed,  or  well  chosen,  in 
respect  to  other  decorations.  With  formal  furniture, 
curtains  are  out  of  place ;  and  an  extensive  volume  of 
drapery  of  any  kind  is,  under  any  circumstances,  ir 
reconcilable  with  good  taste,  the  proper  quantum,  as 

46 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

well  as  the  proper  adjustment,  depending  upon  the 
character  of  the  general  effect. 

Carpets  are  better  understood  of  late  than  of  ancient 
days,  but  we  still  very  frequently  err  in  their  patterns 
and  colors.  The  soul  of  the  apartment  is  the  carpet. 
From  it  are  deduced  not  only  the  hues,  but  the  forms  of 
all  objects  incumbent.  A  judge  at  common  law  may  be 
an  ordinary  man ;  a  good  judge  of  a  carpet  must  be  a 
genius.  Yet  we  have  heard  discoursing  of  carpets, 
with  the  air  d'um  mouton  qtti  revef  fellows  who 
should  not  and  who  could  not  be  entrusted  with  the 
management  of  their  own  moustaches.  Every  one 
knows  that  a  large  floor  may  have  a  covering  of  large 
figures,  and  that  a  small  one  must  have  a  covering  of 
small ;  yet  this  is  not  all  the  knowledge  in  the  world. 
As  regards  texture,  the  Saxony  is  alone  admissible. 
Brussels  is  the  preter-pluperfect  tense  of  fashion,  and 
Turkey  is  taste  in  its  dying  agonies.  Touching  pat 
tern,  a  carpet  should  not  be  bedizened  out  like  a  Ric- 
caree  Indian — all  red  chalk,  yellow  ochre,  and  cock's 
feathers.  In  brief,  distinct  grounds  and  vivid  circular 
or  cycloid  figures,  of  no  meaning,  are  here  Median 
laws.  The  abomination  of  flowers,  or  representations 
of  well-known  objects  of  any  kind,  should  not  be  en 
dured  within  the  limits  of  Christendom.  Indeed, 
whether  on  carpets,  or  curtains,  or  tapestry,  or  otto 
man  coverings,  all  upholstery  of  this  nature  should  be 
rigidly  arabesque.  As  for  those  antique  floor-cloths 

47 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

still  occasionally  seen  in  the  dwellings  of  the  rabble, 
cloths  of  huge,  sprawling,  and  radiating  devices,  stripe- 
interspersed,  and  glorious  with  all  hues,  among  which 
no  ground  is  intelligible, — these  are  but  the  wicked  in 
vention  of  a  race  of  time-servers  and  money-lovers, 
children  of  Baal  and  worshippers  of  Mammon,  Ben- 
thams,  who,  to  spare  thought  and  economize  fancy, 
first  cruelly  invented  the  kaleidoscope  and  then  estab 
lished  joint-stock  companies  to  twirl  it  by  steam. 

Glare  is  a  leading  error  in  the  philosophy  of  Ameri 
can  household  decoration,  an  error  easily  recognized 
as  deduced  from  the  perversion  of  taste  just  specified. 
We  are  violently  enamored  of  gas  and  of  glass.  The 
former  is  totally  inadmissible  within  doors.  Its  harsh 
and  unsteady  light  offends.  No  one  having  both 
brains  and  eyes  will  use  it.  A  mild,  or  what  artists 
term  a  cool  light,  with  its  consequent  warm  shadows, 
will  do  wonders  for  even  an  ill-furnished  apartment. 
Never  was  a  more  lovely  thought  than  that  of  the 
astral  lamp.  We  mean,  of  course,  the  astral  lamp 
proper — the  lamp  of  Argand,  with  its  original  plain 
ground-glass  shade  and  its  tempered  and  uniform 
moonlight  rays.  The  cut-glass  shade  is  a  weak  inven 
tion  of  the  enemy.  The  eagerness  with  which  we  have 
adopted  it,  partly  on  account  of  its  flashiness,  but  prin 
cipally  on  account  of  its  greater  cost,  is  a  good  com 
mentary  on  the  proposition  with  which  we  began.  It 
is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  deliberate  employer  of 

48 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

a  cut-glass  shade  is  either  radically  deficient  in  taste, 
or  blindly  subservient  to  the  caprices  of  fashion.  The 
light  proceeding  from  one  of  these  gaudy  abomina 
tions  is  unequal,  broken,  and  painful.  It  alone  is 
sufficient  to  mar  a  world  of  good  effect  in  the  furniture 
subjected  to  its  influence.  Female  loveliness,  in  espe 
cial,  is  more  than  one  half  disenchanted  beneath  its 
evil  eye. 

In  the  matter  of  glass,  generally,  we  proceed  upon 
false  principles.  Its  leading  feature  is  glitter,  and  in 
that  one  word  how  much  of  all  that  is  detestable  do 
we  express!  Flickering,  unquiet  lights,  are  some 
times  pleasing — to  children  and  idiots  always  so ;  but 
in  the  embellishment  of  a  room  they  should  be  scrupu 
lously  avoided.  In  truth,  even  strong,  steady  lights  are 
inadmissible.  The  huge  and  unmeaning  glass  chande 
liers,  prism-cut,  gas-lighted,  and  without  shade,  which 
dangle  in  our  most  fashionable  drawing-rooms,  may 
be  cited  as  the  quintessence  of  all  that  is  false  in  taste  or 
preposterous  in  folly. 

The  rage  for  glitter,  because  its  idea  has  become,  as 
we  before  observed,  confounded  with  that  of  mag 
nificence  in  the  abstract,  has  led  us,  also,  to  the  exag 
gerated  employment  of  mirrors.  We  line  our  dwellings 
with  great  British  plates  and  then  imagine  we  have 
done  a  fine  thing.  Now,  the  slightest  thought  will  be 
sufficient  to  convince  any  one,  who  has  an  eye  at  all, 
of  the  ill  effect  of '  numerous  looking-glasses,  and 

VOL.   X.-4. 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

especially  of  large  ones.  Regarded  apart  from  its  re 
flection,  the  mirror  presents  a  continuous  flat,  color 
less,  unrelieved  surface,  a  thing  always  and  obviously 
unpleasant.  Considered  as  a  reflector,  it  is  potent  in 
producing  a  monstrous  and  odious  uniformity:  and 
the  evil  is  here  aggravated,  not  in  merely  direct  pro 
portion  with  the  augmentation  of  its  sources,  but  in  a 
ratio  constantly  increasing.  In  fact,  a  room  with  four 
or  five  mirrors  arranged  at  random,  is,  for  all  purposes 
of  artistic  show,  a  room  of  no  shape  at  all.  If  we  add 
to  this  evil  the  attendant  glitter  upon  glitter,  we  have 
a  perfect  farrago  of  discordant  and  displeasing  effects. 
The  veriest  bumpkin,  on  entering  an  apartment  so 
bedizened,  would  be  instantly  aware  of  something 
wrong,  although  he  might  be  altogether  unable  to 
assign  a  cause  for  his  dissatisfaction.  But  let  the 
same  person  be  led  into  a  room  tastefully  furnished, 
and  he  would  be  startled  into  an  exclamation  of  pleas 
ure  and  surprise. 

It  is  an  evil  growing  out  of  our  republican  institu 
tions,  that  here  a  man  of  large  purse  has  usually  a 
very  little  soul  which  he  keeps  in  it.  The  corruption 
of  taste  is  a  portion  or  a  pendant  of  the  dollar-manu 
facture.  As  we  grow  rich,  our  ideas  grow  rusty.  It 
is,  therefore,  not  among  our  aristocracy  that  we  must 
look  (if  at  all,  in  Appalachia)  for  the  spirituality  of  a 
British  boudoir.  But  we  have  seen  apartments  in  the 
tenure  of  Americans  of  modern  means,  which,  in  nega- 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

tive  merit  at  least,  might  vie  with  any  of  the  ormolu'd 
cabinets  of  our  friends  across  the  water.  Even  now, 
there  is  present  to  our  mind's  eye  a  small  and  not 
ostentatious  chamber  with  whose  decorations  no  fault 
can  be  found.  The  proprietor  lies  asleep  on  a  sofa, 
the  weather  is  cool,  the  time  is  near  midnight;  we 
will  make  a  sketch  of  the  room  during  his  slumber. 

It  is  oblong,  some  thirty  feet  in  length  and  twenty- 
five  in  breadth,  a  shape  affording  the  best  (ordinary) 
opportunities  for  the  adjustment  of  furniture.  It  has 
but  one  door,  by  no  means  a  wide  one,  which  is  at 
one  end  of  the  parallelogram,  and  but  two  windows, 
which  are  at  the  other.  These  latter  are  large,  reach 
ing  down  to  the  floor,  have  deep  recesses,  and  open  on 
an  Italian  veranda.  Their  panes  are  of  a  crimson- 
tinted  glass,  set  in  rosewood  framings,  more  massive 
than  usual.  They  are  curtained  within  the  recess  by 
a  thick  silver  tissue  adapted  to  the  shape  of  the  window, 
and  hanging  loosely  in  small  volumes.  Without  the 
recess  are  curtains  of  an  exceedingly  rich  crimson  silk, 
fringed  with  a  deep  network  of  gold,  and  lined  with 
the  silver  tissue  which  is  the  material  of  the  exterior 
blind.  There  are  no  cornices;  but  the  folds  of  the 
whole  fabric  (which  are  sharp  rather  than  massive, 
and  have  an  airy  appearance)  issue  from  beneath  a 
broad  entablature  of  rich  giltwork,  which  encircles  the 
room  at  the  junction  of  the  ceiling  and  walls.  The 
drapery  is  thrown  open  also,  or  closed,  by  means  of  a 

51 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

thick  rope  of  gold  loosely  enveloping  it,  and  resolving 
itself  readily  into  a  knot;  no  pins  or  other  such  de 
vices  are  apparent.  The  colors  of  the  curtains  and  their 
fringe,  the  tints  of  crimson  and  gold,  appear  everywhere 
in  profusion  and  determine  the  character  of  the  room. 
The  carpet — of  Saxony  material — is  quite  half  an  inch 
thick,  and  is  of  the  same  crimson  ground,  relieved 
simply  by  the  appearance  of  a  gold  cord  (like  that 
festooning  the  curtains)  slightly  relieved  above  the 
surface  of  the  ground  and  thrown  upon  it  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  form  a  succession  of  short,  irregular 
curves,  one  occasionally  overlying  the  other.  The  walls 
are  prepared  with  a  glossy  paper  of  a  silver-gray  tint, 
spotted  with  small  Arabesque  devices  of  a  fainter  hue 
of  the  prevalent  crimson.  Many  paintings  relieve  the 
expanse  of  the  paper.  These  are  chiefly  landscapes  of 
an  imaginative  cast,  such  as  the  fairy  grottoes  of  Stan- 
field,  or  the  lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp  of  Chapman. 
There  are,  nevertheless,  three  or  four  female  heads  of 
an  ethereal  beauty — portraits  in  the  manner  of  Sully. 
The  tone  of  each  picture  is  warm,  but  dark.  There 
are  no  "  brilliant  effects."  Repose  speaks  in  all.  Not 
one  is  of  small  size.  Diminutive  paintings  give  that 
spotty  look  to  a  room  which  is  the  blemish  of  so  many 
a  fine  work  of  art  overtouched.  The  frames  are 
broad  but  not  deep,  and  richly  carved  without  being 
dulled  or  filigreed.  They  have  the  whole  lustre  of 
burnished  gold.  They  lie  flat  on  the  walls,  and  do  not 

52 


Philosophy  of  Furniture 

hang  off  with  cords.  The  designs  themselves  are  often 
seen  to  better  advantage  in  this  latter  position,  but  the 
general  appearance  of  the  chamber  is  injured.  But 
one  mirror,  and  this  is  not  a  very  large  one,  is  visible. 
In  shape  it  is  nearly  circular,  and  it  is  hung  so  that  a 
reflection  of  the  person  can  be  obtained  from  it  in  none 
of  the  ordinary  sitting-places  of  the  room.  Two  large 
low  sofas  of  rosewood  and  crimson  silk,  gold-flowered, 
form  the  only  seats,  with  the  exception  of  two  light 
conversation  chairs,  also  of  rosewood.  There  is  a 
pianoforte  (rosewood,  also),  without  cover,  and  thrown 
open.  An  octagonal  table,  formed  altogether  of  the 
richest  gold-threaded  marble,  is  placed  near  one  of 
the  sofas.  This  is  also  without  cover ;  the  drapery  of 
the  curtains  has  been  thought  sufficient.  Four  large 
and  gorgeous  Sevres  vases,  in  which  bloom  a  profusion 
of  sweet  and  vivid  flowers,  occupy  the  slightly  rounded 
angles  of  the  room.  A  tall  candelabrum,  bearing  a 
small  antique  lamp  with  highly  perfumed  oil,  is  stand 
ing  near  the  head  of  my  sleeping  friend.  Some  light 
and  graceful  hanging  shelves,  with  golden  edges  and 
crimson  silk  cords  with  golden  tassels,  sustain  two  or 
three  hundred  magnificently  bound  books.  Beyond 
these  things  there  is  no  furniture,  if  we  except  an 
Argand  lamp,  with  a  plain  crimson-tinted  ground-glass 
shade,  which  depends  from  the  lofty  vaulted  ceiling  by 
a  single  slender  gold  chain,  and  throws  a  tranquil  but 
magical  radiance  over  all. 

53 


Cryptography 


S  we  can  scarcely  imagine  a  time  when  there 
did  not  exist  a  necessity,  or  at  least  a  desire, 
of  transmitting  information  from  one  indi 
vidual  to  another  in  such  a  manner  as  to  elude  general 
comprehension,  so  we  may  well  suppose  the  practice 
of  writing  in  cipher  to  be  of  great  antiquity.  De  la 
Guilletiere,  therefore,  who,  in  his  Lacedxmon  Ancient 
and  Modern,  maintains  that  the  Spartans  were  the  in 
ventors  of  cryptography,  is  obviously  in  error.  He 
speaks  of  the  scytala  as  being  the  origin  of  the  art; 
but  he  should  only  have  cited  it  as  one  of  its  earliest 
instances,  so  far  as  our  records  extend.  The  scytalae 
were  two  wooden  cylinders,  precisely  similar  in  all  re 
spects.  The  general  of  an  army,  in  going  upon  any 
expedition,  received  from  the  ephori  one  of  these  cylin 
ders,  while  the  other  remained  in  their  possession.  If 
either  party  had  occasion  to  communicate  with  the 
other,  a  narrow  strip  of  parchment  was  so  wrapped 
around  the  scytala  that  the  edges  of  the  skin  fitted 

54 


Cryptography 

accurately  each  to  each.  The  writing  was  then  in 
scribed  longitudinally,  and  the  epistle  unrolled  and 
despatched.  If,  by  mischance,  the  messenger  was  in 
tercepted,  the  letter  proved  unintelligible  to  his  captors. 
If  he  reached  his  destination  safely,  however,  the  party 
addressed  had  only  to  involve  the  second  cylinder  in 
the  strip  to  decipher  the  inscription.  The  transmission 
to  our  own  times  of  this  mode  of  cryptography  is  due, 
probably,  to  the  historical  use  of  the  scytala  rather 
than  to  anything  else.  Similar  means  of  secret  inter 
communication  must  have  existed  almost  contem 
poraneously  with  the  invention  of  letters. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  remark,  in  passing,  that  in  none 
of  the  treatises  on  the  subject  of  this  paper  which  have 
fallen  under  our  cognizance  have  we  observed  any 
suggestion  of  a  method,  other  than  those  which  apply 
alike  to  all  ciphers,  for  the  solution  of  the  cipher  by 
scytala.  We  read  of  instances,  indeed,  in  which  the 
intercepted  parchments  were  deciphered;  but  we  are 
not  informed  that  this  was  ever  done  except  acciden 
tally.  Yet  a  solution  might  be  obtained  with  absolute 
certainty  in  this  manner :  The  strip  of  skin  being  in 
tercepted,  let  there  be  prepared  a  cone  of  great  length 
comparatively,  say  six  feet  long,  and  whose  circum 
ference  at  base  shall  at  least  equal  the  length  of  the 
strip.  Let  this  latter  be  rolled  upon  the  cone  near  the 
base,  edge  to  edge,  as  above  described ;  then,  still  keep 
ing  edge  to  edge,  and  maintaining  the  parchment  close 

55 


Cryptography 

upon  the  cone,  let  it  be  gradually  slipped  toward  the 
apex.  In  this  process,  some  of  those  words,  syllables, 
or  letters,  whose  connection  is  intended,  will  be  sure  to 
come  together  at  that  point  of  the  cone  where  its  di 
ameter  equals  that  of  the  scytala  upon  which  the 
cipher  was  written.  And  as  in  passing  up  the  cone 
to  its  apex  all  possible  diameters  are  passed  over,  there 
is  no  chance  of  a  failure.  The  circumference  of  the 
scytala  being  thus  ascertained,  a  similar  one  can  be 
made  and  the  cipher  applied  to  it. 

Few  persons  can  be  made  to  believe  that  it  is  not 
quite  an  easy  thing  to  invent  a  method  of  secret  writ 
ing  which  shall  baffle  investigation.  Yet  it  may  be 
roundly  asserted  that  human  ingenuity  cannot  concoct 
a  cipher  which  human  ingenuity  cannot  resolve.  In 
the  facility  with  which  such  writing  is  deciphered, 
however,  there  exist  very  remarkable  differences  in 
different  intellects.  Often,  in  the  case  of  two  individ 
uals  of  acknowledged  equality  as  regards  ordinary 
mental  efforts,  it  will  be  found  that,  while  one  cannot 
unriddle  the  commonest  cipher,  the  other  will  scarcely 
be  puzzled  by  the  most  abstruse.  It  may  be  observed 
generally  that  in  such  investigations  the  analytic  ability 
is  very  forcibly  called  into  action ;  and,  for  this  reason, 
cryptographical  solutions  might,  with  great  propriety, 
be  introduced  into  academies  as  the  means  of  giving 
tone  to  the  most  important  of  the  powers  of  mind. 

Were  two  individuals,  totally  unpractised  in  cryptog- 
56 


Cryptography 

raphy,  desirous  of  holding  by  letter  a  correspondence 
which  should  be  unintelligible  to  all  but  themselves,  it 
is  most  probable  that  they  would  at  once  think  of  a 
peculiar  alphabet,  to  which  each  should  have  a  key. 
At  first  it  would,  perhaps,  be  arranged  that "  a  "  should 
stand  for  «  z,"  "  b  "  for  "  y,"  «  c  "  for  "  x,"  "  d  "  for 
"  w,"  etc.,  etc. ;  that  is  to  say,  the  order  of  the  letters 
would  be  reversed.  Upon  second  thoughts,  this  ar 
rangement  appearing  too  obvious,  a  more  complex 
mode  would  be  adopted.  The  first  thirteen  letters 
might  be  written  beneath  the  last  thirteen,  thus : 

nopqrstuvwxyz 
abcdefghijklm; 

and,  so  placed,  "  a  "  might  stand  for  "  n  "  and  "  n  "  for 
"a",  "o"  for  "b"  and  "b"  for  "o,"  etc.,  etc.  This, 
again,  having  an  air  of  regularity  which  might  be 
fathomed,  the  key  alphabet  might  be  struck  absolutely 
at  random.  Thus, 

a  might  stand  for  p 
b  "  "  "  x 
c  "  "  "  u 
d  "  "  "  o,  etc. 

The  correspondents,  unless  convinced  of  their  error  by 
the  solution  of  their  cipher,  would,  no  doubt,  be  will 
ing  to  rest  in  this  latter  arrangement  as  affording  full 
security.  But  if  not,  they  would  be  likely  to  hit  upon 
the  plan  of  arbitrary  marks  used  in  place  of  the  usual 
characters.  For  example, 

57 


Cryptography 


(  might  be  employed  for  a 
it  H  tt  ti  |j 
«  it  «  ««  g 

«  ((  «  U       d 

)       "      "         "          "  e,  etc. 


A  letter  composed  of  such  characters  would  have  an 
intricate  appearance  unquestionably.  If  still,  how 
ever,  it  did  not  give  full  satisfaction,  the  idea  of  a  per 
petually  shifting  alphabet  might  be  conceived,  and 
thus  effected:  Let  two  circular  pieces  of  pasteboard 
be  prepared,  one  about  half  an  inch  in  diameter  less 
than  the  other.  Let  the  centre  of  the  smaller  be 
placed  upon  the  centre  of  the  larger  one  and  secured 
for  a  moment  from  slipping,  while  radii  are  drawn 
from  the  common  centre  to  the  circumference  of  the 
smaller  circle,  and  thus  extended  to  the  circumference 
of  the  greater.  Let  there  be  twenty-six  of  these  radii, 
forming  on  each  pasteboard  twenty-six  spaces.  In 
each  of  these  spaces  on  the  under  circle  write  one  of 
the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  so  that  the  whole  alphabet 
be  written  —  if  at  random  so  much  the  better.  Do  the 
same  with  the  upper  circle.  Now  run  a  pin  through 
the  common  centre  and  let  the  upper  circle  revolve, 
while  the  under  one  is  held  fast.  Now  stop  the  revo 
lution  of  the  upper  circle,  and,  while  both  lie  still,  write 
the  epistle  required,  using  for  "  a  "  that  letter  in  the 
smaller  circle  which  tallies  with  "  a  "  in  the  larger,  for 
"  b  "  that  letter  in  the  smaller  circle  which  tallies  with 

58 


Cryptography 

"  b  "  in  the  larger,  etc.,  etc.  In  order  that  an  epistle 
thus  written  may  be  read  by  the  person  for  whom  it  is 
intended,  it  is  only  necessary  that  he  should  have  in 
his  possession  circles  constructed  as  those  just  de 
scribed,  and  that  he  should  know  any  two  of  the  char 
acters  (one  in  the  under  and  one  in  the  upper  circle) 
which  were  in  juxtaposition  when  his  correspondent 
wrote  the  cipher.  Upon  this  latter  point  he  is  in 
formed  by  looking  at  the  two  initial  letters  of  the 
document  which  serves  as  a  key.  Thus,  if  he  sees  "  a 
m  "  at  the  beginning,  he  concludes  that  by  turning  his 
circles  so  as  to  put  these  characters  in  conjunction,  he 
will  arrive  at  the  alphabet  employed. 

At  a  cursory  glance,  these  various  modes  of  con 
structing  a  cipher  seem  to  have  about  them  an  air  of 
inscrutable  secrecy.  It  appears  almost  an  impossibil 
ity  to  unriddle  what  has  been  put  together  by  so  com 
plex  a  method.  And  to  some  persons  the  difficulty 
might  be  great ;  but  to  others,  to  those  skilled  in  de 
ciphering,  such  enigmas  are  very  simple  indeed.  The 
reader  should  bear  in  mind  that  the  basis  of  the  whole 
art  of  solution,  as  far  as  regards  these  matters,  is  found 
in  the  general  principles  of  the  formation  of  language 
itself,  and  thus  is  altogether  independent  of  the 
particular  laws  which  govern  any  cipher,  or  the  con 
struction  of  its  key.  The  difficulty  of  reading  a  cryp- 
tographical  puzzle  is  by  no  means  always  in  accordance 
with  the  labor  or  ingenuity  with  which  it  has  been 

59 


Cryptography 

constructed.  The  sole  use  of  the  key,  indeed,  is  for 
those  au  fait  to  the  cipher;  in  its  perusal  by  a  third 
party,  no  reference  is  had  to  it  at  all.  The  lock  of  the 
secret  is  picked.  In  the  different  methods  of  cryptog 
raphy  specified  above,  it  will  be  observed  that  there  is 
a  gradually  increasing  complexity.  But  this  com 
plexity  is  only  in  shadow.  It  has  no  substance  what 
ever.  It  appertains  merely  to  the  formation,  and  has 
no  bearing  upon  the  solution  of  the  cipher.  The  last 
mode  mentioned  is  not  in  the  least  degree  more  difficult 
to  be  deciphered  than  the  first,  whatever  may  be  the 
diffiiculty  of  either. 

In  the  discussion  of  an  analogous  subject,  in  one  of 
the  weekly  papers  of  this  city  about  eighteen  months 
ago,  the  writer  of  this  article  had  occasion  to  speak  of 
the  application  of  a  rigorous  method  in  all  forms  of 
thought,  of  its  advantages,  of  the  extension  of  its  use 
even  to  what  is  considered  the  operation  of  pure  fancy, 
and  thus,  subsequently,  of  the  solution  of  cipher.  He 
even  ventured  to  assert  that  no  cipher,  of  the  charac 
ter  above  specified,  could  be  sent  to  the  address  of  the 
paper  which  he  would  not  be  able  to  resolve.  This 
challenge  excited,  most  unexpectedly,  a  very  lively  in 
terest  among  the  numerous  readers  of  the  journal. 
Letters  were  poured  in  upon  the  editor  from  all  parts 
of  the  country;  and  many  of  the  writers  of  these 
epistles  were  so  convinced  of  the  impenetrability  of 
their  mysteries  as  to  be  at  great  pains  to  draw  him 

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Cryptography 

into  wagers  on  the  subject.  At  the  same  time,  they 
were  not  always  scrupulous  about  sticking  to  the 
point.  The  cryptographs  were,  in  numerous  instances, 
altogether  beyond  the  limits  defined  in  the  beginning. 
Foreign  languages  were  employed.  Words  and  sen 
tences  were  run  together  without  interval.  Several 
alphabets  were  used  hi  the  same  cipher.  One  gentle 
man,  but  moderately  endowed  with  conscientiousness, 
inditing  us  a  puzzle  composed  of  pot-hooks  and  hangers 
to  which  the  wildest  typography  of  the  office  could 
afford  nothing  similar,  went  even  so  far  as  to  jumble 
together  no  less  than  seven  distinct  alphabets,  without 
intervals  between  the  letters  or  between  the  lines. 
Many  of  the  cryptographs  were  dated  in  Philadelphia, 
and  several  of  those  which  urged  the  subject  of  a  bet 
were  written  by  gentlemen  of  this  city.  Out  of,  per 
haps,  one  hundred  ciphers  altogether  received,  there 
was  only  one  which  we  did  not  immediately  succeed 
in  resolving.  This  one  we  demonstrated  to  be  an  im 
position,  that  is  to  say,  we  fully  proved  it  a  jargon  of 
random  characters,  having  no  meaning  whatever.  In 
respect  to  the  epistle  of  the  seven  alphabets,  we  had 
the  pleasure  of  completely  nonplussing  its  inditer  by  a 
prompt  and  satisfactory  translation. 

The  weekly  paper  mentioned  was,  for  a  period  of 
some  months,  greatly  occupied  with  the  hieroglyphic 
and  cabalistic-looking  solutions  of  the  cryptographs 
sent  us  from  all  quarters.  Yet,  with  the  exception  of 

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Cryptography 

the  writers  of  the  ciphers,  we  do  not  believe  that  any 
individuals  could  have  been  found  among  the  readers 
of  the  journal  who  regarded  the  matter  in  any  other 
light  than  in  that  of  a  desperate  humbug.  We  mean 
to  say  that  no  one  really  believed  in  the  authenticity 
of  the  answers.  One  party  averred  that  the  mysteri 
ous  figures  were  only  inserted  to  give  a  queer  air  to 
the  paper  for  the  purpose  of  attracting  attention.  An 
other  thought  it  more  probable  that  we  not  only  solved 
the  ciphers,  but  put  them  together  ourselves  for  solu 
tion.  This  having  been  the  state  of  affairs  at  the 
period  when  it  was  thought  expedient  to  decline  fur 
ther  dealings  in  necromancy,  the  writer  of  this  article 
avails  himself  of  the  present  opportunity  to  maintain 
the  truth  of  the  journal  in  question,  to  repel  the 
charges  of  rigmarole  by  which  it  was  assailed,  and 
to  declare,  in  his  own  name,  that  the  ciphers  were  all 
written  in  good  faith  and  solved  in  the  same  spirit. 

A  very  common  and  somewhat  too  obvious  mode  of 
secret  correspondence  is  the  following:  A  card  is  in 
terspersed,  at  irregular  intervals  with  oblong  spaces, 
about  the  length  of  ordinary  words  of  three  syllables 
in  a  bourgeois  type.  Another  card  is  made  exactly 
coinciding.  One  is  in  possession  of  each  party.  When 
a  letter  is  to  be  written  the  key-card  is  placed  upon 
the  paper  and  words  conveying  the  true  meaning  in 
scribed  in  the  spaces.  The  card  is  then  removed  and 
the  blanks  filled  up,  so  as  to  make  out  a  signification 

62 


Cryptography 

different  from  the  real  one.  When  the  person  ad 
dressed  receives  the  cipher  he  has  merely  to  apply  to 
it  his  own  card,  when  the  superfluous  words  are  con 
cealed,  and  the  significant  ones  alone  appear.  The 
chief  objection  to  this  cryptograph  is  the  difficulty  of 
so  filling  the  blanks  as  not  to  give  a  forced  appearance 
to  the  sentences.  Differences  also  in  the  handwriting 
between  the  words  written  in  the  spaces  and  those  in 
scribed  upon  removal  of  the  card  will  always  be  de 
tected  by  a  close  observer. 

A  pack  of  cards  is  sometimes  made  the  vehicle  of  a 
cipher  in  this  manner:  The  parties  determine,  in  the 
first  place,  upon  certain  arrangements  of  the  pack. 
For  example,  it  is  agreed  that,  when  a  writing  is  to  be 
commenced,  a  natural  sequence  of  the  spots  shall  be 
made,  with  spades  at  top,  hearts  next,  diamonds  next, 
and  clubs  last.  This  order  being  obtained,  the  writer 
proceeds  to  inscribe  upon  the  top  card  the  first  letter 
of  his  epistle,  upon  the  next  the  second,  upon  the  next 
the  third,  and  so  on  until  the  pack  is  exhausted,  when, 
of  course,  he  will  have  written  fifty-two  letters.  He 
now  shuffles  the  pack  according  to  a  preconcerted  plan. 
For  example :  He  takes  three  cards  from  the  bottom 
and  places  them  at  top,  then  one  from  top,  placing  it 
at  bottom,  and  so  on,  for  a  given  number  of  times.  This 
done,  he  again  inscribes  fifty-two  characters  as  be 
fore,  proceeding  thus  until  his  epistle  is  written.  The 
pack  being  received  by  the  correspondent,  he  has  only 

63 


Cryptography 

to  place  the  cards  in  the  order  agreed  upon  for  com 
mencement  to  read,  letter  by  letter,  the  first  fifty-two 
characters  as  intended.  He  has  then  only  to  shuffle 
in  the  manner  pre-arranged  for  the  second  perusal  to 
decipher  the  series  of  the  next  fifty-two  letters,  and  so 
on  to  the  end.  The  objection  to  this  cryptograph  lies 
in  the  nature  of  the  missive.  A  pack  of  cards,  sent 
from  one  party  to  another,  would  scarcely  fail  to  ex 
cite  suspicion,  and  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  it  is  far 
better  to  secure  ciphers  from  being  considered  as  such 
than  to  waste  time  in  attempts  at  rendering  them 
scrutiny-proof  when  intercepted.  Experience  shows 
that  the  most  cunningly  constructed  cryptograph,  if 
suspected,  can  and  will  be  unriddled. 

An  unusually  secure  mode  of  secret  intercommuni 
cation  might  be  thus  devised:  Let  the  parties  each 
furnish  themselves  with  the  copy  of  the  same  edition 
of  a  book,  the  rarer  the  edition  the  better,  as  also  the 
rarer  the  book.  In  the  cryptograph  numbers  are  used 
altogether,  and  these  numbers  refer  to  the  locality  of 
letters  in  the  volume.  For  example,  a  cipher  is  re 
ceived  commencing,  121-6-8.  The  party  addressed 
refers  to  page  121,  and  looks  at  the  sixth  letter  from 
the  left  of  the  page  in  the  eighth  line  from  the  top. 
Whatever  letter  he  there  finds  is  the  initial  letter  of 
the  epistle,  and  so  on.  This  method  is  very  secure; 
yet  it  is  possible  to  decipher  any  cryptograph  written 
by  its  means,  and  it  is  greatly  objectionable  otherwise 

64 


Cryptography 

on  account  of  the  time  necessarily  required  for  its 
solution,  even  with  the  key-volume. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  cryptography,  as  a  seri 
ous  thing,  as  the  means  of  imparting  important  infor 
mation,  has  gone  out  of  use  at  the  present  day.  It  is 
still  commonly  practised  in  diplomacy;  and  there  are 
individuals,  even  now,  holding  office  in  the  eye  of 
various  foreign  governments,  whose  real  business  is 
that  of  deciphering.  We  have  already  said  that  a 
peculiar  mental  action  is  called  into  play  in  the  solu 
tion  of  cryptographical  problems,  at  least  in  those  of 
the  higher  order.  Good  cryptographists  are  rare  in 
deed;  and  thus  their  services,  although  seldom  re 
quired,  are  necessarily  well  requited. 

An  instance  of  the  modern  employment  of  writing 
in  cipher  is  mentioned  in  a  work  lately  published  by 
Messieurs  Lea  and  Blanchard  of  this  city,1  Sketches  of 
Conspicuous  Living  Characters  of  France,  In  a  notice 
of  Berryer,  it  is  said  that  a  letter  being  addressed  by 
the  Duchess  de  Berri  to  the  Legitimists  of  Paris,  to  in 
form  them  of  her  arrival,  it  was  accompanied  by  a 
long  note  in  cipher,  the  key  of  which  she  had  forgotten 
to  give.  "  The  penetrating  mind  of  Berryer,"  says 
the  biographer,  "  soon  discovered  it.  It  was  this 
phrase  substituted  for  the  twenty-four  letters  of  the 
alphabet :  Le  gouvernement  provisoire, 

The  assertion  that  Berryer  "  soon  discovered  the 

1  Philadelphia.— Ed. 

VOL.  X.— 5.  6 


Cryptography 

key-phrase  "  merely  proves  that  the  writer  of  these 
memoirs  is  entirely  innocent  of  cryptographical  know 
ledge.  Monsieur  B.  no  doubt  ascertained  the  key- 
phrase  ;  but  it  was  merely  to  satisfy  his  curiosity,  after 
the  riddle  had  been  read.  He  made  no  use  of  the  key 
in  deciphering.  The  lock  was  picked. 

In  our  notice  of  the  book  in  question  (published  in 
the  April  number  of  this  magazine)1  we  alluded  to  this 
subject  thus : 

"  The  phrase  Le  gouvernement  provisoire  is  French, 
and  the  note  in  cipher  was  addressed  to  Frenchmen. 
The  difficulty  of  deciphering  may  well  be  supposed 
much  greater  had  the  key  been  in  a  foreign  tongue ; 
yet  any  one  who  will  take  the  trouble  may  address  us 
a  note,  in  the  same  manner  as  here  proposed,  and  the 
key-phrase  may  be  either  in  French,  Italian,  Spanish, 
German,  Latin,  or  Greek  (or  in  any  of  the  dialects  of 
these  languages),  and  we  pledge  ourselves  for  the 
solution  of  the  riddle." 

This  challenge  has  elicited  but  a  single  response, 
which  is  embraced  in  the  following  letter.  The  only 
quarrel  we  have  with  the  epistle  is,  that  its  writer  has 
declined  giving  us  his  name  in  full.  We  beg  that  he 
will  take  an  early  opportunity  of  doing  this,  and  thus 
relieve  us  of  the  chance  of  that  suspicion  which  was 
attached  to  the  cryptography  of  the  weekly  journal 

1  Graham's.— Ed. 

66 


Cryptography 

above  mentioned — the  suspicion  of  inditing  ciphers  to 
ourselves.    The  postmark  of  the  letter  is  "  Stonington, 

Conn." 

S ,  Ct.,  April,  1841. 

To  the  Editor  of  Graham's  Magazine  t 

Sir — In  the  April  number  of  your  magazine,  while  review 
ing  the  translation  by  Mr.  Walsh  of  Sketches  of  Conspicuous 
Living  Characters  of  France,  you  invite  your  readers  to 
address  you  a  note  in  cipher,  *  the  key-phrase  to  which  may 
be  either  in  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  German,  Latin,  or 
Greek,'  and  pledge  yourself  for  its  solution.  My  attention 
being  called,  by  your  remarks,  to  this  species  of  cipher-writing, 
I  composed  for  my  own  amusement  the  following  exercises, 
in  the  first  part  of  which  the  key-phrase  is  in  English,  in  the 
second  in  Latin.  As  I  did  not  see  (by  the  number  for  May) 
that  any  of  your  correspondents  had  availed  himself  of  your 
offer,  I  take  the  liberty  to  send  the  enclosed,  on  which,  if  you 
should  think  it  worth  your  while,  you  can  exercise  your  in 
genuity. 

I  am,  yours  respectfully, 

S.  D.  L. 

No.  i 

"  Cauhiif  aud  ftd  sdftirf  ithot  tacd  wdde  rdchfdr  tiu 
fuaefshffheo  fdoudf  hetiusafhie  tuis  ied  herhchriai  fi 
aeiftdu  wn  sdaef  it  iuhfheo  hiidohwid  fi  aen  deodsf  ths 
tiu  itis  hf  iaf  iuhoheaiin  rdffhedr;  aer  ftd  auf  it  ftif 
f doudfin  oissiehoafheo  hefdiihodeod  taf  wdde  odeduaiin 
fdusdr  ounsfiouastn.  Saen  fsdohdf  it  fdoudf  iuhfheo 
idud  weiie  fi  ftd  aeohdeff;  fisdfhsdf  a  fiacdf  tdar  iaf 
ftacdr  aer  ftd  ouiie  iuhffde  isie  ihft  fisd  herdihwid 
oiiiuheo  tiihr,  atfdu  ithot  ftd  tahu  wdheo  sdushffdr  fi 

67 


Cryptography 

ouii  aoahe,  hetiusafhie  oiiir  wd  fuaefshffdr  ihft  ihffid 
raeodu  ftaf  rhfoicdun  iiiir  defid  iefhi  ftd  aswiiafiun 
dshffid  fatdin  udaotdr  hff  rdffheafhie.  Ounsfiouastn 
tiidcdu  siud  suisduin  dswuaodf  ftifd  sirdf  it  iuhfheo 
ithot  aud  uderdudr  idohwid  iein  wn  sdaef  it  fisd  de- 
siaeafiun  wdn  ithot  sawdf  weiie  ftd  udai  fhoehthoafhie 
it  ftd  ohstduf  dssiindr  fi  hff  siffdffiu." 

No.  2 

"  Ofoiioiiaso  ortsiii  sov  eodisoioe  afduiostifoi  ft  iftvi 
si  tri  oistoiv  oiniafetsorit  ifeov  rsri  afotiiiiv  ridiiot  irio 
riwio  eovit  atrotfetsoria  aioriti  iitri  tf  oitovin  tri  aeti- 
f ei  ioreitit  sov  usttoi  oioittstif o  dfti  afdooitior  trso  ifeov 
tri  dfit  otftfeov  softriedi  ft  oistoiv  oriofiforiti  suitteii 
viireiiitif oi  ft  tri  iarf oisiti  iiti  trir  uet  otiiiotiv  uitfti  rid 
io  tri  eoviieeiiiv  rfasueostr  ft  rii  dftrit  tfoeei." 

In  the  solution  of  the  first  of  these  ciphers  we  had 
little  more  than  ordinary  trouble.  The  second  proved 
to  be  exceedingly  difficult,  and  it  was  only  by  calling 
every  faculty  into  play  that  we  could  read  it  at  all. 
The  first  runs  thus: 

"  Various  are  the  methods  which  have  been  devised 
for  transmitting  secret  information  from  one  individ 
ual  to  another  by  means  of  writing,  illegible  to  any 
except  him  for  whom  it  was  originally  destined;  and 
the  art  of  thus  secretly  communicating  intelligence  has 
been  generally  termed  "  cryptography."  Many  species 

68 


Cryptography 

of  secret  writing  were  known  to  the  ancients.  Some 
times  a  slave's  head  was  shaved  and  the  crown  written 
upon  with  some  indelible  coloring  fluid;  after  which, 
the  hair  being  permitted  to  grow  again,  information 
could  be  transmitted  with  little  danger  that  discovery 
would  ensue  until  the  ambulatory  epistle  safely 
reached  its  destination.  Cryptography,  however  pure, 
properly  embraces  those  modes  of  writing  which  are 
rendered  legible  only  by  means  of  some  explanatory 
key  which  makes  known  the  real  signification  of  the 
ciphers  employed  to  its  possessor." 

The  key-phrase  of  this  cryptograph  is,  "  A  word  to 
the  wise  is  sufficient." 

The  second  is  thus  translated : 

"  Nonsensical  phrases  and  unmeaning  combinations 
of  words,  as  the  learned  lexicographer  would  have 
confessed  himself,  when  hidden  under  cryptographic 
ciphers,  serve  to  perpdex  the  curious  enquirer,  and 
baffle  penetration  more  completely  than  would  the 
most  profound  apothegms  of  learned  philosophers. 
Abstruse  disquisitions  of  the  scholiasts  were  they  but 
presented  before  him  in  the  undisguised  vocabulary  of 
his  mother  tongue " 

The  last  sentence  here  as  will  be  seen  is  broken  off 
short.  The  spelling  we  have  strictly  adhered  to.  "D," 
by  mistake,  has  been  put  for  "  1 "  in  "  perplex." 

69 


Cryptography 

The  key-phrase  is,  Suaviter  in  modo,  farther  in  re, 
In  the  ordinary  cryptograph,  as  will  be  seen  in  refer 
ence  to  most  of  those  we  have  specified  above,  the 
artificial  alphabet  agreed  upon  by  the  correspondents 
is  employed,  letter  for  letter,  in  place  of  the  usual  or 
natural  one.  For  example,  two  parties  wish  to  com 
municate  secretly.  It  is  arranged  before  parting  that 

)  shall  stand  for  a 


( 

tt 

it 

it 

b 

— 

tt 

it 

ti 

c 

* 

« 

tt 

ft 

d 

. 

« 

it 

tt 

e 

1 

tt 

tt 

it 

f 

; 

ft 

tt 

ti 

g 

: 

tt 

tt 

it 

h 

? 

tt 

it 

t» 

i  or  j 

! 

" 

tt 

it 

k 

& 

tt 

it 

tt 

1 

o 

" 

tt 

it 

m 

« 

tt 

tt 

tt 

n 

t 

it 

tt 

tt 

o 

I 

it 

tt 

tt 

P 

1 

ti 

tf 

tt 

q 

JT 

tt 

tt 

ft 

r 

] 

tt 

tt 

it 

s 

C 

tt 

tt 

it 

t 

£ 

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tt 

tt 

u  or  v 

$ 

tt 

tt 

it 

w 

i 

tt 

tt 

tt 

X 

\ 

it 

it 

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y 

70 


Cryptography 

Now,  the  following  note  is  to  be  communicated  : 
"  We  must  see  you  immediately  upon  a  matter  of 
great  importance.    Plots  have  been  discovered,  and 
the  conspirators  are  in  our  hands.     Hasten!  " 

These  words  would  be  written  thus  : 


.  )E  Fotttt^l!)'—  .t&tC3:)£.  (..'*?]  —  t 


This  certainly  has  an  intricate  appearance,  and 
would  prove  a  most  difficult  cipher  to  any  one  not  con 
versant  with  cryptography.  But  it  will  be  observed  that 
"  a,"  for  example,  is  never  represented  by  any  other 
character  than  ),  "  b  "  never  by  any  other  character 
than  (,  and  so  on.  Thus  by  the  discovery,  accidental  or 
otherwise,  of  any  one  letter,  the  party  intercepting  the 
epistle  would  gain  a  permanent  and  decided  advantage* 
and  could  apply  his  knowledge  to  all  the  instances  in 
which  the  character  in  question  was  employed  through 
out  the  cipher. 

In  the  cryptographs,  on  the  other  hand,  which  have 
been  sent  us  by  our  correspondent  at  Stonington,  and 
which  are  identical  in  conformation  with  the  cipher  re 
solved  by  Berryer,  no  such  permanent  advantage  is  to 
be  obtained. 

Let  us  refer  to  the  second  of  these  puzzles.  Its  key- 
phrase  runs  thus  : 


Cryptography 

Suaviter  in  mode,  fortiter  in  re, 
Let  us  now  place  the  alphabet  beneath  the  phrase, 


letter  beneath  letter: 


ui  a  v   i  t  e 

blc  d  e  f  g 

r  iin   m  oldlo  f  loir 
h  il  j    k    llmln  olplq 

We  here  see  that 

a  stands  for 

d       "       "                        E 

e       "       "          g,  u,  and 

f              «            <i 

i        "       "      e,  i,  s,  and\ 

m     "       "                         ] 

n      "       "               j  and 

o       "       "          1,  n,  and 

r       "       "      h,q,v,  and 

s       "       " 

t       "       "           f,  r,  and 

u      "       " 

v       «       « 

t|i|t|e|rl  i  In]  rie 
rlsltlulvlwlxlylz 


In  this  manner  "  n  "  stands  for  two  letters,  and  "  e," 
"  o,"  and  "  t "  for  three  each,  while  "  i "  and  "  r  "  rep 
resent  each  as  many  as  four.  Thirteen  characters  are 
made  to  perform  the  operations  of  the  whole  alphabet. 
The  result  of  such  a  key-phrase  upon  the  cipher  is  to  give 
it  the  appearance  of  a  mere  medley  of  the  letters,  "  e," 
"  o,"  "  t,"  "  r,"  and  "  i,"  the  latter  character  greatly 
predominating  through  the  accident  of  being  employed 
for  letters,  which,  themselves,  are  inordinately  preva 
lent  in  most  languages — we  mean  "  e  "  and  "  i." 

72 


Cryptography 

A  letter  thus  written  being  intercepted,  and  the  key- 
phrase  unknown,  the  individual  who  should  attempt  to 
decipher  it  may  be  imagined  guessing,  or  otherwise  at 
tempting  to  convince  himself,  that  a  certain  character 
("  i,"  for  example),  represented  the  letter  "  e."  Look 
ing  throughout  the  cryptograph  for  confirmation  of 
this  idea  he  would  meet  with  nothing  but  a  negation 
of  it.  He  would  see  the  character  in  situations  where 
it  could  not  possibly  represent  "  e."  He  might,  for  in 
stance,  be  puzzled  by  four  "  i's"  forming  of  themselves 
a  single  word,  without  the  intervention  of  any  other 
character,  in  which  case,  of  course,  they  could  not  be 
all "  e's."  It  will  be  seen  that  the  word  "  wise  "  might 
be  thus  constructed.  We  say  this  may  be  seen  now,  by 
us,  in  possession  of  the  key-phrase,  but  the  question 
will  no  doubt  occur,  how,  without  the  key-phrase,  and 
without  cognizance  of  any  single  letter  in  the  cipher, 
it  would  be  possible  for  the  intercepter  of  such  a  crypto 
graph  to  make  anything  of  such  a  word  as  "  iiii  "  ? 

But  again.  A  key-phrase  might  easily  be  con 
structed  in  which  one  character  would  represent  seven, 
eight,  or  ten  letters.  Let  us  then  imagine  the  word 
"  iiiiiiiiii "  presenting  itself  in  a  cryptograph  to  an  in 
dividual  without  the  proper  key-phrase,  or,  if  this  be 
a  supposition  somewhat  too  perplexing,  let  us  suppose 
it  occurring  to  the  person  for  whom  the  cipher  is  de 
signed  and  who  has  the  key-phrase.  What  is  he  to 
do  with  such  a  word  as  "  iiiiiiiiii "  ?  In  any  of  the 

73 


Cryptography 

ordinary  books  upon  algebra  will  be  found  a  very  con 
cise  formula  (we  have  not  the  necessary  type  for  its 
insertion  here)  for  ascertaining  the  number  of  arrange 
ments  in  which  m  letters  may  be  placed,  taken  n  at  a 
time.  But  no  doubt  there  are  none  of  our  readers 
ignorant  of  the  innumerable  combinations  which  may 
be  made  from  these  ten  "  i's."  Yet,  unless  it  occur 
otherwise  by  accident,  the  correspondent  receiving  the 
cipher  would  have  to  write  down  all  these  combina 
tions  before  attaining  the  word  intended,  and  even 
when  he  had  written  them  he  would  be  inexpressibly 
perplexed  in  selecting  the  word  designed  from  the  vast 
number  of  other  words  arising  in  the  course  of  the 
permutation. 

To  obviate,  therefore,  the  exceeding  difficulty  of  de 
ciphering  this  species  of  cryptograph  on  the  part  of  the 
possessors  of  the  key-phrase,  and  to  confine  the  deep 
intricacy  of  the  puzzle  to  those  for  whom  the  cipher 
was  not  designed,  it  becomes  necessary  that  some 
order  should  be  agreed  upon  by  the  parties  correspond 
ing, — some  order  in  reference  to  which  those  charac 
ters  are  to  be  read  which  represent  more  than  one 
letter, — and  this  order  must  be  held  in  view  by  the 
writer  of  the  cryptograph.  It  may  be  agreed,  for  ex 
ample,  that  the  first  time  an  "  i "  occurs  in  the  cipher 
it  is  to  be  understood  as  representing  the  character 
which  stands  against  the  first  "  i "  in  the  key-phrase ; 
that  the  second  time  an  "  i "  occurs  it  must  be  sup- 

74 


Cryptography 

posed  to  represent  that  letter  which  stands  opposed  to 
the  second  "  i "  in  the  key-phrase,  etc.,  etc.  Thus  the 
location  of  each  cipherical  letter  must  be  considered  in 
connection  with  the  character  itself  in  order  to  de 
termine  its  exact  signification. 

We  say  that  some  preconcerted  order  of  this  kind  is 
necessary  lest  the  cipher  prove  too  intricate  a  lock  to 
yield  even  to  its  true  key.  But  it  will  be  evident,  upon 
inspection,  that  our  correspondent  at  Stonington  has 
inflicted  upon  us  a  cryptograph  in  which  no  order  has 
been  preserved,  in  which  many  characters  respectively 
stand,  at  absolute  random,  for  many  others.  If,  there 
fore,  in  regard  to  the  gauntlet  we  threw  down  in  April, 
he  should  be  half-inclined  to  accuse  us  of  braggadocio, 
he  will  yet  admit  that  we  have  more  than  acted  up  to 
our  boast.  If  what  we  then  said  was  not  said  suavlter 
in  modot  what  we  now  do  is  at  least  done  fortiter 
in  re. 

In  these  cursory  observations  we  have  by  no  means 
attempted  to  exhaust  the  subject  of  cryptography. 
With  such  object  in  view  a  folio  might  be  required. 
We  have,  indeed,  mentioned  only  a  few  of  the  ordinary 
modes  of  cipher.  Even  two  thousand  years  ago 
JEneas  Tacticus  detailed  twenty  distinct  methods,  and 
modern  ingenuity  has  added  much  to  the  science.  Our 
design  has  been  chiefly  suggestive,  and  perhaps  we 
have  already  bored  the  readers  of  the  magazine.  To 
those  who  desire  further  information  upon  this  topic 

75 


Cryptography 

we  may  say  that  there  are  extant  treatises  by  Trith- 
emius,  Cap.  Porta,  Vigenere,  and  P.  Nice*ron.  The 
works  of  the  two  latter  may  be  found,  we  believe,  in 
the  library  of  the  Harvard  University.  If,  however, 
there  should  be  sought  in  these  disquisitions,  or  in  any, 
rules  for  the  solution  of  cipher,  the  seeker  will  be  dis 
appointed.  Beyond  some  hints  in  regard  to  the  gen 
eral  structure  of  language,  and  some  minute  exercises 
in  their  practical  application,  he  will  find  nothing  upon 
record  which  he  does  not  in  his  own  intellect  possess. 


76 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


BY 


NDER  this  head,  some  years  ago,  there  ap 
peared  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger 
an  article  which  attracted  very  general 
attention,  not  less  from  the  nature  of  its  subject  than 
from  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  it  was  handled. 
The  editor  introduces  his  readers  to  a  certain  Mr. 
Joseph  Miller,  who,  it  is  hinted,  is  not  merely  a  descen 
dant  of  the  illustrious  Joe  of  jest-book  notoriety,  but 
is  that  identical  individual  in  proper  person.  Upon 
this  point,  however,  an  air  of  uncertainty  is  thrown  by 
means  of  an  equivoque,  maintained  throughout  the 

77 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

paper,  in  respect  to  Mr.  Miller's  middle  name.  This 
equivoque  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  Mr.  M.  himself. 
He  gives  his  name,  in  the  first  instance,  as  Joseph  A. 
Miller,  but  in  the  course  of  conversation  shifts  it  to 
Joseph  B.,  then  to  Joseph  C.,  and  so  on  through  the 
whole  alphabet,  until  he  concludes  by  desiring  a  copy 
of  the  magazine  to  be  sent  to  his  address  as  Joseph  Z. 
Miller,  Esquire. 

The  object  of  his  visit  to  the  editor  is  to  place  in 
his  hands  the  autographs  of  certain  distinguished 
American  literati,  To  these  persons  he  had  written 
rigmarole  letters  on  various  topics,  and  in  all  cases 
had  been  successful  in  eliciting  a  reply.  The  re 
plies  only  (which  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  are  all 
fictitious)  are  given  in  the  magazine  with  a  genuine 
autograph  facsimile  appended,  and  are  either  bur 
lesques  of  the  supposed  writer's  usual  style,  or  ren 
dered  otherwise  absurd  by  reference  to  the  nonsensical 
questions  imagined  to  have  been  propounded  by  Mr. 
Miller.  The  autographs  thus  given  are  twenty-six  in 
all,  corresponding  to  the  twenty-six  variations  in  the 
initial  letter  of  the  hoaxer's  middle  name. 

With  the  public  this  article  took  amazingly  well,  and 
many  of  our  principal  papers  were  at  the  expense  of 
reprinting  it  with  the  wood-cut  autographs.  Even 
those  whose  names  had  been  introduced,  and  whose 
style  had  been  burlesqued,  took  the  joke,  generally 
speaking,  in  good  part.  Some  of  them  were  at  a  loss 

78 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

what  to  make  of  the  matter.  Dr.  W.  E.  Channing,  of 
Boston,  was  at  some  trouble,  it  is  said,  in  calling  to 
mind  whether  he  had  or  had  not  actually  written  to 
some  Mr.  Joseph  Miller  the  letter  attributed  to  him  in 
the  article.  This  letter  was  nothing  more  than  what 

follows : 

BOSTON, . 

Dear  Sir, — No  such  person  as  Philip  Philpot  has  ever  been 
in  my  employ  as  a  coachman,  or  otherwise.  The  name  is 
an  odd  one,  and  not  likely  to  be  forgotten.  The  man  must 
have  reference  to  some  other  Doctor  Channing.  It  would 
be  as  well  to  question  him  closely. 

Respectfully  yours, 

W.  E.  CHANNING. 
To  Joseph  X.  Miller,  Esq. 

The  precise  and  brief  sententiousness  of  the  divine 
is  here,  it  will  be  seen,  very  truly  adopted  or  "  hit  off." 

In  one  instance  only  was  the  jeu  d'esprit  taken  in 
serious  dudgeon.  Colonel  Stone  and  the  Messenger 
had  not  been  upon  the  best  of  terms.  Some  one  of  the 
Colonel's  little  brochures  had  been  severely  treated  by 
that  journal,  which  declared  that  the  work  would  have 
been  far  more  properly  published  among  the  quack 
advertisements  in  a  spare  corner  of  the  Commercial 
The  Colonel  had  retaliated  by  wholesale  vituperation 
of  the  Messenger,  This  being  the  state  of  affairs,  it 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  following  epistle 
was  not  quietly  received  on  the  part  of  him  to  whom 
it  was  attributed : 

79 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


NEW  YORK, 


Dear  Sir, — I  am  exceedingly  and  excessively  sorry  that 
it  is  out  of  my  power  to  comply  with  your  rational  and 
reasonable  request.  The  subject  you  mention  is  one  with 
which  I  am  utterly  unacquainted.  Moreover,  it  is  one 
about  which  I  know  very  little. 

Respectfully, 

W.  L.  STONE. 
Joseph  V.  Miller,  Esq. 

These  tautologies  and  anti-climaxes  were  too  much 
for  the  Colonel,  and  we  are  ashamed  to  say  that  he 
committed  himself  by  publishing  in  the  Commercial 
an  indignant  denial  of  ever  having  indited  such  an 
epistle. 

The  principal  feature  of  this  autograph  article,  al 
though  perhaps  the  least  interesting,  was  that  of  the 
editorial  comment  upon  the  supposed  MSS.,  regarding 
them  as  indicative  of  character.  In  these  comments 
the  design  was  never  more  than  semi-serious.  At 
times,  too,  the  writer  was  evidently  led  into  error  or 
injustice  through  the  desire  of  being  pungent,  not  un- 
frequently  sacrificing  truth  for  the  sake  of  a  boo.* 
mot  In  this  manner  qualities  were  often  attributed 
to  individuals,  which  were  not  so  much  indicated  by 
their  handwriting  as  suggested  by  the  spleen  of  the 
commentator.  But  that  a  strong  analaogy  does  gen 
erally  and  naturally  exist  between  every  man's  chirog- 
raphy  and  character  will  be  denied  by  none  but  the 

80 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

unreflecting.  It  is  not  our  purpose,  however,  to  enter 
into  the  philosophy  of  this  subject,  either  in  this  por 
tion  of  the  present  paper  or  in  the  abstract.  What  we 
may  have  to  say  will  be  introduced  elsewhere,  and  in 
connection  with  particular  MSS.  The  practical  appli 
cation  of  the  theory  will  thus  go  hand  in  hand  with  the 
theory  itself. 

Our  design  is  threefold:  In  the  first  place,  seriously 
to  illustrate  our  position  that  the  mental  features  are 
indicated  (with  certain  exceptions)  by  the  handwrit 
ing;  secondly,  to  indulge  in  a  little  literary  gossip; 
and,  thirdly,  to  furnish  our  readers  with  a  more  accu 
rate  and  at  the  same  time  a  more  general  collection  of 
the  autographs  of  our  literati  than  is  to  be  found  else 
where.  Of  the  first  portion  of  this  design  we  have 
already  spoken.  The  second  speaks  for  itself.  Of  the 
third  it  is  only  necessary  to  say  that  we  are  confident 
of  its  interest  for  all  lovers  of  literature.  Next  to  the 
person  of  a  distinguished  man  of  letters,  we  desire  to 
see  his  portrait;  next  to  his  portrait,  his  autograph. 
In  the  latter,  especially,  there  is  something  which 
seems  to  bring  him  before  us  in  his  true  idiosyncrasy 
— in  his  character  of  scribe.  The  feeling  which  prompts 
to  the  collection  of  autographs  is  a  natural  and  ra 
tional  one.  But  complete,  or  even  extensive  collec 
tions  are  beyond  the  reach  of  those  who  themselves 
do  not  dabble  in  the  waters  of  literature.  The  writer 
of  this  article  has  had  opportunities  in  this  way 

81 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

enjoyed  by  few.  The  MSS.  now  lying  before  him  are 
a  motley  mass  indeed.  Here  are  letters,  or  other  com 
positions,  from  every  individual  in  America  who  has 
the  slightest  pretensions  to  literary  celebrity.  From 
these  we  propose  to  select  the  most  eminent  names, 
as  to  give  all  would  be  a  work  of  supererogation.  Un 
questionably,  among  those  whose  claims  we  are  forced 
to  postpone,  are  several  whose  high  merit  might  justly 
demand  a  different  treatment ;  but  the  rule  applicable 
in  a  case  like  this  seems  to  be  that  of  celebrity  rather 
than  that  of  true  worth.  It  will  be  understood  that, 
in  the  necessity  of  selection  which  circumstances  im 
pose  upon  us,  we  confine  ourselves  to  the  most  noted 
among  the  living  literati  of  the  country.  The  article 
above  alluded  to  embraced,  as  we  have  already  stated, 
only  twenty-six  names,  and  was  not  occupied  exclu 
sively  either  with  living  persons,  or,  properly  speaking, 
with  literary  ones.  In  fact,  the  whole  paper  seemed 
to  acknowledge  no  law  beyond  that  of  whim.  Our 
present  essay  will  be  found  to  include  one  hundred 
autographs.  We  have  thought  it  unnecessary  to  pre 
serve  any  particular  order  in  their  arrangement. 


Professor  Charles  Anthon,  of  Columbia  College, 
New  York,  is  well  known  as  the  most  erudite  of  our 
classical  scholars;  and,  although  still  a  young  man, 

82 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

there  are  few,  if  any,  even  in  Europe,  who  surpass  him 
in  his  peculiar  path  of  knowledge.  In  England  his 
supremacy  has  been  tacitly  acknowledged  by  the  im 
mediate  republication  of  his  editions  of  Caesar,  Sallust, 
and  Cicero,  with  other  works,  and  their  adoption  as 
text-books  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  His  amplifica 
tion  of  Lempriere  did  him  high  honor,  but  of  late  has 
been  entirely  superseded  by  a  Classical  Dictionary  of 
his  own,  a  work  most  remarkable  for  the  extent  and 
comprehensiveness  of  its  details,  as  well  as  for  its  his 
torical,  chronological,  mythological,  and  philological 
accuracy.  It  has  at  once  completely  overshadowed 
everything  of  its  kind.  It  follows,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  that  Mr.  Anthon  has  many  little  enemies  among 
the  inditers  of  merely  big  books.  He  has  not  been 
unassailed,  yet  has  assuredly  remained  uninjured  in 
the  estimation  of  all  those  whose  opinion  he  would  be 
likely  to  value.  We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  he  is 
altogether  without  faults,  but  a  certain  antique  John- 
sonism  of  style  is  perhaps  one  of  his  worst.  He  was 
mainly  instrumental  (with  Professor  Henry  and  Dr. 
Hawks)  in  setting  on  foot  the  New  York  Review,  a 
journal  of  which  he  is  the  most  efficient  literary  sup 
port,  and  whose  most  erudite  papers  have  always  been 
furnished  by  his  pen. 

The  chirography  of  Professor  Anthon  is  the  most 
regularly  beautiful  of  any  in  our  collection.  We  see 
the  most  scrupulous  precision,  finish,  and  neatness 

83 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

about  every  portion  of  it — in  the  formation  of  indi 
vidual  letters,  as  well  as  in  the  tout'ensemble.  The 
perfect  symmetry  of  the  MS.  gives  it,  to  a  casual 
glance,  the  appearance  of  Italic  print.  The  lines  are 
quite  straight,  and  at  exactly  equal  distances,  yet  are 
written  without  black  rules  or  other  artificial  aid.  There 
is  not  the  slightest  superfluity  in  the  way  of  flourish  or 
otherwise,  with  the  exception  of  the  twirl  in  the  C  of 
the  signature.  Yet  the  whole  is  rather  neat  and  grace 
ful  than  forcible.  Of  four  letters  now  lying  before  us, 
one  is  written  on  pink,  one  on  a  faint  blue,  one  on 
green,  and  one  on  yellow  paper — all  of  the  finest  qual 
ity.  The  seal  is  of  green  wax,  with  an  impression  of 
the  head  of  Caesar. 

It  is  in  the  chirography  of  such  men  as  Professor 
Anthon  that  we  look  with  certainty  for  indication  of 
character.  The  life  of  a  scholar  is  mostly  undisturbed 
by  those  adventitious  events  which  distort  the  natural 
disposition  of  the  man  of  the  world,  preventing  his 
real  nature  from  manifesting  itself  in  his  MS.  The 
lawyer,  who,  pressed  for  time,  is  often  forced  to  em 
body  a  world  of  heterogeneous  memoranda  on  scraps 
of  paper,  with  the  stumps  of  all  varieties  of  pen,  will 
soon  find  the  fair  characters  of  his  boyhood  degen 
erate  into  hieroglyphics  which  would  puzzle  Dr.  Wallis 
or  Champollion;  and  from  chirography  so  disturbed 
it  is  nearly  impossible  to  decide  anything.  In  a  simi 
lar  manner  men  who  pass  through  many  striking  vicis- 

84 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

situdes  of  life  acquire  in  each  change  of  circumstance 
a  temporary  inflection  of  the  handwriting,  the  whole 
resulting,  after  many  years,  in  unformed  or  variable 
MS.  scarcely  to  be  recognized  by  themselves  from  one 
day  to  the  other.  In  the  case  of  literary  men  gener 
ally,  we  may  expect  some  decisive  token  of  the  mental 
influence  upon  the  MS.,  and  in  the  instance  of  the 
classical  devotee  we  may  look  with  especial  certainty 
for  such  token.  We  see,  accordingly,  in  Professor 
Anthon's  autography  each  and  all  the  known  idiosyn 
crasies  of  his  taste  and  intellect.  We  recognize  at 
once  the  scrupulous  precision  and  finish  of  his  scholar 
ship  and  of  his  style,  the  love  of  elegance  which 
prompts  him  to  surround  himself  in  his  private  study 
with  gems  of  sculptural  art  and  beautifully  bound  vol 
umes,  all  arranged  with  elaborate  attention  to  form, 
and  in  the  very  pedantry  of  neatness.  We  perceive, 
too,  the  disdain  of  superfluous  embellishment  which 
distinguishes  his  compilations,  and  which  gives  to  their 
exterior  appearance  so  marked  an  air  of  Quakerism. 
We  must  not  forget  to  observe  that  the  "  want  of 
force  "  is  a  want  as  perceptible  in  the  whole  character 
of  the  man  as  in  that  of  the  MS. 


The  MS.  of  Mr.  Irving  has  little  about  it  indicative 
of  his  genius.     Certainly,  no  one  could  suspect  from 

85 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

it  any  nice  finish  in  the  writer's  compositions ;  nor  is 
this  nice  finish  to  be  found.  The  letters  now  before 
us  vary  remarkably  in  appearance ;  and  those  of  late 
date  are  not  nearly  so  well  written  as  the  more  an 
tique.  Mr.  Irving  has  travelled  much,  has  seen  many 
vicissitudes,  and  has  been  so  thoroughly  satiated  with 
fame  as  to  grow  slovenly  in  the  performance  of  his 
literary  tasks.  This  slovenliness  has  affected  his  hand 
writing.  But  even  from  his  earlier  MSS.  there  is  little 
to  be  gleaned,  except  the  ideas  of  simplicity  and  pre 
cision.  It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  this  fact, 
in  itself,  is  characteristic  of  the  literary  manner,  which, 
however  excellent,  has  no  prominent  or  very  remark 
able  features. 


For  the  last  six  or  seven  years  few  men  have  occu 
pied  a  more  desirable  position  among  us  than  Mr. 
Benjamin.  As  the  editor  of  the  American  Monthly 
Magazine,  of  the  New  Yorker,  and  more  lately  of  the 
Signal  and  New  World,  he  has  exerted  an  influence 
scarcely  second  to  that  of  any  editor  in  the  country. 
This  influence  Mr.  B.  owes  to  no  single  cause,  but  to  his 
combined  ability,  activity,  causticity,  fearlessness,  and 
independence.  We  use  the  latter  term,  however,  with 
some  mental  reservation.  The  editor  of  the  World  is 

86 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

it  any  nice  finish  in  the  writer's  compositions;  nor  is 
this  nice  finish  to  be  found.  The  letters  now  before 
us  wy  remarkably  in  appearance;  and  those  of  late 
date  are  not  nearly  so  well  written  as  the  more  an 
tique.  Mr.  Irving  has  travelled  much,  has  seen  many 
vicissitudes,  and  has  been  so  thoroughly  satiated  with 
fame  as  to  grow  slovenly  in  the  performance  of  his 
literary  tasks.  This  slovenliness  has  affected  his  hand 
writing.  But  even  from  his  earlier  MSS.  there  is  little 
to  be  gleaned,  except  the  ideas  of  simplicity  and  pre 
cision.  It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  this  fact, 
in  itself,  is  characteristic  of  the  literary  manner,  which, 
«IUffc*ifc£t8^^  very  remarh 

V.-   hedl  v  ja<    ues  Reicl     rom  the  painl '•:.„  '  y  r    R    I.  sli 

S 


For  the  fcMt  *  *  '  **»  ««  nave  occu" 

pied  a  more  de  ^*«  among  us  than  Mr. 

Benjamin.     A*  r  <*  the  American  Monthly 

Magazine,  ot  tn*  flew  Yorker,  and  more  lately  of  the 
Signal  and  New  World,  he  has  exerted  an  influence 
scarcely  second  to  that  of  any  editor  in  the  country. 
This  influence  Mr.  B.  owes  to  no  single  cause,  but  to  his 
combined  ability,  activity,  causticity,  fearlessness,  and 
independence.  We  use  the  latter  term,  however,  with 
mental  reservation.  The  editor  of  the  World  is 
86 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

independent  so  far  as  the  word  implies  unshaken 
resolution  to  follow  the  bent  of  one's  own  will,  let  the 
consequences  be  what  they  may.  He  is  no  respecter 
of  persons,  and  his  vituperation  as  often  assails  the 
powerful  as  the  powerless:  indeed,  the  latter  fall  rarely 
under  his  censure.  But  we  cannot  call  his  indepen 
dence  at  all  times  that  of  principle.  We  can  never  be 
sure  that  he  will  defend  a  cause  merely  because  it  is 
the  cause  of  truth,  or  even  because  he  regards  it  as 
such.  He  is  too  frequently  biased  by  personal  feelings 
— feelings  now  of  friendship,  now  of  vindictiveness. 
He  is  a  warm  friend,  and  a  bitter  but  not  implacable 
enemy.  His  judgment  in  literary  matters  should  not 
be  questioned,  but  there  is  some  difficulty  in  getting  at 
his  real  opinion.  As  a  prose  writer,  his  style  is  lucid, 
terse,  and  pungent.  He  is  often  witty,  often  cuttingly 
sarcastic,  but  seldom  humorous.  He  frequently  in 
jures  the  force  of  his  fiercest  attacks  by  an  indulgence 
in  merely  vituperative  epithets.  As  a  poet,  he  is  en 
titled  to  far  higher  consideration  than  that  in  which 
he  is  ordinarily  held.  He  is  skilful  and  passionate,  as 
well  as  imaginative.  His  sonnets  have  not  been  sur 
passed.  In  short,  it  is  as  a  poet  that  his  better  genius 
is  evinced;  it  is  in  poetry  that  his  noble  spirit  breaks 
forth,  showing  what  the  man  is,  and  what,  but  for 
unhappy  circumstances,  he  would  invariably  appear. 

Mr.  Benjamin's  MS.  is  not  very  dissimilar  to  Mr. 
Irving's,  and,  like  his,  it  has  no  doubt  been  greatly 

87 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

modified  by  the  excitements  of  life,  and  by  the  neces 
sity  of  writing  much  and  hastily,  so  that  we  can  predi 
cate  but  little  respecting  it.  It  speaks  of  his  exquisite 
sensibility  and  passion.  These  betray  themselves  in 
the  nervous  variation  of  the  MS.  as  the  subject  is 
diversified.  When  the  theme  is  an  ordinary  one  the 
writing  is  legible  and  has  force;  but  when  it  verges 
upon  any  thing  which  may  be  supposed  to  excite,  we 
see  the  characters  falter  as  they  proceed.  In  the  MSS. 
of  some  of  his  best  poems  this  peculiarity  is  very  re 
markable.  The  signature  conveys  the  idea  of  his 
usual  chirography. 


Mr.  Kennedy  is  well  known  as  the  author  of 
low  Barn,  Horse'Shoe  Robinson,  and  Fob  of  the 
Bowl,  three  works  whose  features  are  strongly  and 
decidedly  marked.  These  features  are  boldness  and 
force  of  thought  (disdaining  ordinary  embellishment, 
and  depending  for  its  effect  upon  masses  rather  than 
upon  details),  with  a  predominant  sense  of  the  pic 
turesque  pervading  and  giving  color  to  the  whole.  His 
Swallow  Barn  in  especial  (and  it  is  by  the  first  effort 
of  an  author  that  we  form  the  truest  idea  of  his  mental 
bias)  is  but  a  rich  succession  of  picturesque  still-life 
pieces.  Mr.  Kennedy  is  well  to  do  in  the  world  and 
has  always  taken  the  world  easily.  We  may  therefore 

88 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

expect  to  find  in  his  chirography,  if  ever  in  any,  a  full 
indication  of  the  chief  features  of  his  literary  style, 
especially  as  this  chief  feature  is  so  remarkably  promi 
nent.  A  glance  at  his  signature  will  convince  any  one 
that  the  indication  is  to  be  found.  A  painter  called 
upon  to  designate  the  main  peculiarity  of  this  MS. 
would  speak  at  once  of  the  picturesque.  This  charac 
ter  is  given  it  by  the  absence  of  hair-strokes,  and  by 
the  abrupt  termination  of  every  letter  without  taper 
ing;  also  in  great  measure  by  varying  the  size  and  slope 
of  the  letters.  Great  uniformity  is  preserved  in  the 
whole  air  of  the  MS.,  with  great  variety  in  the  con 
stituent  parts.  Every  character  has  the  clearness, 
boldness,  and  precision  of  a  wood-cut.  The  long  let 
ters  do  not  rise  or  fall  in  an  undue  degree  above  the 
others.  Upon  the  whole,  this  is  a  hand  which  pleases 
us  much,  although  its  bizarrerie  is  rather  too  piquant 
for  the  general  taste.  Should  its  writer  devote  him 
self  more  exclusively  to  light  letters  we  predict  his 
future  eminence.  The  paper  on  which  our  epistles  are 
written  is  very  fine,  clear,  and  white,  with  gilt  edges. 
The  seal  is  neat,  and  just  sufficient  wax  has  been  used 
for  the  impression.  All  this  betokens  a  love  of  the 
elegant  without  effeminacy. 


The  handwriting  of  Grenville  Mellen  is  somewhat 
peculiar,  and  partakes  largely  of  the  character  of  his 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

signature  as  seen  on  page  89.  The  whole  is  highly 
indicative  of  the  poet's  flighty,  hyperfanciful  character, 
with  his  unsettled  and  often  erroneous  ideas  of  the 
beautiful.  His  straining  after  effect  is  well  paralleled 
in  the  formation  of  the  preposterous  G  in  the  signature, 
with  the  two  dots  by  its  side.  Mr.  Mellen  has  genius 
unquestionably,  but  there  is  something  in  his  tempera 
ment  which  obscures  it. 


No  correct  notion  of  Mr.  Paulding's  literary  pecul 
iarities  can  be  obtained  from  an  inspection  of  his  MS., 
which  no  doubt  has  been  strongly  modified  by  adven 
titious  circumstances.  His  small  "  a's,"  "  t's,"  and 
"  c's  "  are  all  alike,  and  the  style  of  the  characters 
generally  is  French,  although  the  entire  MS.  has  much 
the  appearance  of  Greek  text.  The  paper  which  he 
ordinarily  uses  is  of  a  very  fine,  glossy  texture,  and  of 
a  blue  tint,  with  gilt  edges.  His  signature  is  a  good 
specimen  of  his  general  hand. 


»  X7c& 


Mrs.  Sigourney  seems  to  take  much  pains  with  her 
MSS.  Apparently  she  employs  black  lines.  Every  "  t  " 
is  crossed  and  every  "i"  dotted  with  precision,  while  the 

90 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

punctuation  is  faultless.  Yet  the  whole  has  nothing 
of  effeminacy  or  formality.  The  individual  characters 
are  large,  well,  and  freely  formed,  and  preserve  a  per 
fect  uniformity  throughout.  Something  in  her  hand 
writing  puts  us  in  mind  of  Mr.  Paulding's.  In  both 
MSS.  perfect  regularity  exists,  and  in  both  the  style  is 
formed  or  decided.  Both  are  beautiful,  yet  Mrs. 
Sigourney's  is  the  most  legible,  and  Mr.  Paulding's 
nearly  the  most  illegible,  in  the  world.  From  that  of 
Mrs.  S.  we  might  easily  form  a  true  estimate  of  her 
compositions.  Freedom,  dignity,  precision,  and  grace, 
without  originality,  may  be  properly  attributed  to  her. 
She  has  fine  taste  without  genius.  Her  paper  is  usu 
ally  good,  the  seal  small,  of  green  and  gold  wax,  and 
without  impression. 


Mr.  Walsh's  MS.  is  peculiar,  from  its  large,  sprawl 
ing,  and  irregular  appearance  —  rather  rotund  than 
angular.  It  always  seems  to  have  been  hurriedly 
written.  The  "  t's  "  are  crossed  with  a  sweeping 
scratch  of  the  pen,  which  gives  to  his  epistles  a  some 
what  droll  appearance.  A  dictatorial  air  pervades  the 
whole.  His  paper  is  of  ordinary  quality.  His  seal  is 
commonly  of  brown  wax  mingled  with  gold,  and  bears 
a  Latin  motto,  of  which  only  the  words  trans  and 
mortuus  are  legible. 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

Mr.  Walsh  cannot  be  denied  talent,  but  his  reputa 
tion,  which  has  been  bolstered  into  being  by  a  clique, 
is  not  a  thing  to  live.  A  blustering  self-conceit  be 
trays  itself  in  his  chirography,  which  upon  the  whole 
is  not  very  dissimilar  to  that  of  Mr.  E.  Everett,  of 
whom  we  will  speak  hereafter. 


Mr.  Ingraham,  or  Ingrahame  (for  he  writes  his 
name  sometimes  with  and  sometimes  without  the  "  e," 
is  one  of  our  most  popular  novelists,  if  not  one  of  our 
best.  He  appeals  always  to  the  taste  of  the  ultra- 
romancists  (as  a  matter,  we  believe,  rather  of  pecuni 
ary  policy  than  of  choice),  and  thus  is  obnoxious  to 
the  charge  of  a  certain  cut-and-thrust,  blue-fire  melo- 
dramaticism.  Still,  he  is  capable  of  better  things.  His 
chirography  is  very  unequal,  at  times  sufficiently  clear 
and  flowing,  at  others  shockingly  scratchy  and  un 
couth.  From  it  nothing  whatever  can  be  predicated 
except  an  uneasy  vacillation  of  temper  and  of  purpose. 


Mr.  Bryant's  MS.  puts  us  entirely  at  fault.     It  is 
one  of  the  most  commonplace  clerk's  hands  which  we 

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A  Chapter  on  Autography 

ever  encountered,  and  has  no  character  about  it  be 
yond  that  of  the  day-book  and  ledger.  He  writes,  in 
short,  what  mercantile  men  and  professional  penmen 
call  a  fair  hand,  but  what  artists  would  term  an  abom 
inable  one.  Among  its  regular  up-and-down  strokes, 
waving  lines  and  hair-lines,  systematic  taperings  and 
flourishes,  we  look  in  vain  for  the  force,  polish,  and 
decision  of  the  poet.  The  picturesque,  to  be  sure,  is 
equally  deficient  in  his  chirography  and  in  his  poetical 
productions. 


Mr.  Halleck's  hand  is  strikingly  indicative  of  his 
genius.  We  see  in  it  some  force,  more  grace,  and 
little  of  the  picturesque.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  free 
dom  about  it,  and  his  MSS.  seem  to  be  written  currente 
calamo,  but  without  hurry.  His  flourishes,  which  are 
not  many,  look  as  if  thoughtfully  planned  and  delib 
erately  yet  firmly  executed.  His  paper  is  very  good, 
and  of  a  bluish  tint  ;  his  seal  of  red  wax. 


Mr.  Willis  when  writing  carefully  would  write  a 
hand  nearly  resembling  that  of  Mr.  Halleck,  although 

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A  Chapter  on  Autography 

no  similarity  is  perceptible  in  the  signatures.  His 
usual  chirography  is  dashing,  free,  and  not  ungrace 
ful,  but  is  sadly  deficient  in  force  and  picturesqueness. 
It  has  been  the  fate  of  this  gentleman  to  be  alternately 
condemned  ad  infmitum,  and  lauded  ad  nauseam,  a 
fact  which  speaks  much  in  his  praise.  We  know  of 
no  American  writer  who  has  evinced  greater  versa 
tility  of  talent,  that  is  to  say,  of  high  talent  often 
amounting  to  genius,  and  we  know  of  none  who  has 
more  narrowly  missed  placing  himself  at  the  head  of 
our  letters. 

The  paper  of  Mr.  Willis's  epistles  is  always  fine  and 
glossy.  At  present  he  employs  a  somewhat  large  seal, 
with  a  dove  or  carrier-pigeon  at  the  top,  the  word 
"  Glenmary"  at  the  bottom,  and  the  initials  "N.  P. 
W."  in  the  middle. 


Mr.  Dawes  has  been  long  known  as  a  poet,  but  his 
claims  are  scarcely  yet  settled,  his  friends  giving  him 
rank  with  Bryant  and  Halleck,  while  his  opponents 
treat  his  pretensions  with  contempt.  The  truth  is  that 
the  author  of  Getaldme  and  Athenia  of  Damascus  has 
written  occasional  verses  very  well,  so  well  that  some 
of  his  minor  pieces  may  be  considered  equal  to  any  of 
the  minor  pieces  of  either  of  the  two  gentlemen  above 
mentioned.  His  longer  poems,  however,  will  not 

94 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

bear  examination.  Athenia  of  Damascus  is  pompous 
nonsense,  and  Geraldine  a  most  ridiculous  imitation  of 
Don  Juan,  in  which  the  beauties  of  the  original  have 
been  as  sedulously  avoided  as  the  blemishes  have  been 
blunderingly  culled.  In  style  he  is  perhaps  the  most 
inflated,  involved,  and  falsely  figurative  of  any  of  our 
more  noted  poets.  This  defect,  of  course,  is  only  fully 
appreciable  in  what  are  termed  his  "  sustained  efforts," 
and  thus  his  shorter  pieces  are  often  exceedingly  good. 
His  apparent  erudition  is  mere  verbiage,  and  were  it 
real  would  be  lamentably  out  of  place  where  we  see  it. 
He  seems  to  have  been  infected  with  a  blind  admira 
tion  of  Coleridge,  especially  of  his  mysticism  and  cant. 


A/v 


H.  W.  Longfellow  (Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy 
at  Harvard)  is  entitled  to  the  first  place  among  the 
poets  of  America — certainly  to  the  first  place  among 
those  who  have  put  themselves  prominently  forth  as 
poets.  His  good  qualities  are  all  of  the  highest  order, 
while  his  sins  are  chiefly  those  of  affectation  and  imi 
tation—an  imitation  sometimes  verging  upon  down 
right  theft. 

His  MS.  is  remarkably  good,  and  is  fairly  exempli 
fied  in  the  signature.  We  see  here  plain  indications  of 

95 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

the  force,  vigor,  and  glowing  richness  of  his  literary 
style ;  the  deliberate  and  steady  finish  of  his  composi 
tions.  The  man  who  writes  thus  may  not  accom 
plish  much,  but  what  he  does  will  always  be  thoroughly 
done.  The  main  beauty,  or  at  least  one  great  beauty 
of  his  poetry,  is  that  of  proportion ;  another  is  a  free 
dom  from  extraneous  embellishment.  He  oftener 
runs  into  affectation  through  his  endeavors  at  sim 
plicity  than  through  any  other  cause.  Now,  this  rigid 
simplicity  and  proportion  are  easily  perceptible  in  the 
MS.  which,  altogether,  is  a  very  excellent  one. 


The  Rev.  J.  Pierpont,  who,  of  late,  has  attracted  so 
much  of  the  public  attention,  is  one  of  the  most  ac 
complished  poets  in  America.  His  Airs  of  Palestine  is 
distinguished  by  the  sweetness  and  vigor  of  its  versifi 
cation  and  by  the  grace  of  its  sentiments.  Some  of 
its  shorter  pieces  are  exceedingly  terse  and  forcible,  and 
none  of  our  readers  can  have  forgotten  his  Lines  on 
Napoleon.  His  rhythm  is  at  least  equal  in  strength 
and  modulation  to  that  of  any  poet  in  America.  Here 
he  resembles  Milman  and  Croly. 

His  chirography,  nevertheless,  indicates  nothing 
96 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

beyond  the  commonplace.  It  is  an  ordinary  clerk's 
hand,  one  which  is  met  with  more  frequently  than  any 
other.  It  is  decidedly  formed ;  and  we  have  no  doubt 
that  he  never  writes  otherwise  than  thus.  The  MS.  of 
his  school-days  has  probably  been  persisted  in  to  the 
last.  If  so,  the  fact  is  in  full  consonance  with  the 
steady  precision  of  his  style.  The  flourish  at  the  end 
of  the  signature  is  but  a  part  of  the  writer's  general 
enthusiasm. 


Mr.  Simms  is  the  author  of  Martin  Faber,  Atalantis, 
Guy  Rivers f  The  Partisan,  Mellichampe,  The  Yemas* 
see,  The  Damsel  of  Darien,  The  Black  Riders  of  the 
Congaree,  and  one  or  two  other  productions,  among 
which  we  must  not  forget  to  mention  several  fine 
poems.  As  a  poet,  indeed,  we  like  him  far  better  than 
as  a  novelist.  His  qualities  in  this  latter  respect  re 
semble  those  of  Mr.  Kennedy,  although  he  equals  him 
in  no  particular  except  in  his  appreciation  of  the 
graceful.  In  his  sense  of  beauty  he  is  Mr.  K.'s  su 
perior,  but  falls  behind  him  in  force,  and  the  other 
attributes  of  the  author  of  Swallow  Barn,  These 
differences  and  resemblances  are  well  shown  in  the 

VOL.  X.— 7. 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

MSS.  That  of  Mr.  S.  has  more  slope  and  more  uni 
formity  in  detail,  with  less  in  the  mass,  while  it  has 
also  less  of  the  picturesque,  although  still  much. 
The  middle  name  is  Gilmore  :  in  the  cut  it  looks  like 
Gilmere. 


The  Rev.  Orestes  A.  Brownson  is  chiefly  known 
to  the  literary  world  as  the  editor  of  the  Boston  Quar** 
terly  Review,  a  work  to  which  he  contributes,  each 
quarter,  at  least  two  thirds  of  the  matter.  He  has  pub 
lished  little  in  book-form,  his  principal  works  being 
Charles  Edwood  and  New  Views.  Of  these,  the  former 
production  is,  in  many  respects,  one  of  the  highest 
merit.  In  logical  accuracy,  in  comprehensiveness  of 
thought,  and  in  the  evident  frankness  and  desire  for 
truth  in  which  it  is  composed  we  know  of  few  theo 
logical  treatises  which  can  be  compared  with  it.  Its 
conclusion,  however,  bears  about  it  a  species  of  hesi 
tation  and  inconsequence  which  betray  the  fact  that 
the  writer  has  not  altogether  succeeded  in  convincing 
himself  of  those  important  truths  which  he  is  so 
anxious  to  impress  upon  his  readers.  We  must  bear 
in  mind,  however,  that  this  is  the  fault  of  Mr.  Brown- 
son's  subject,  and  not  of  Mr.  Brownson.  However 
well  a  man  may  reason  on  the  great  topics  of  God  and 
immortality,  he  will  be  forced  to  admit  tacitly,  in  the 

98 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

end,  that  God  and  immortality  are  things  to  be  felt 
rather  than  demonstrated. 

On  subjects  less  indefinite,  Mr.  B.  reasons  with  the 
calm  and  convincing  force  of  a  Combe.  He  is,  in 
every  respect,  an  extraordinary  man,  and  with  the 
more  extensive  resources  which  would  have  been 
afforded  him  by  early  education,  could  not  have 
failed  to  bring  about  important  results. 

His  MS.  indicates,  in  the  most  striking  manner,  the 
unpretending  simplicity,  directness,  and  especially  the 
indef  atigability  of  his  mental  character.  His  signature 
is  more  petite  than  his  general  chirography. 


Judge  Beverly  Tucker,  of  the  College  of  William  and 
Mary,  Virginia,  is  the  author  of  one  of  the  best  novels 
ever  published  in  America,  George  Balcombe,  although 
for  some  reason  the  book  was  never  a  popular  favor 
ite.  It  was,  perhaps,  somewhat  too  didactic  for  the 
general  taste. 

He  has  written  a  great  deal  also  for  the  Southern 
Literary  Messenger  at  different  times;  and  at  one 
period  acted  in  part,  if  not  altogether,  as  editor  of  that 
magazine,  which  is  indebted  to  him  for  some  very  racy 
articles,  in  the  way  of  criticism  especially.  He  is  apt, 
however,  to  be  led  away  by  personal  feelings,  and  is 

99 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

more  given  to  vituperation  for  the  mere  sake  of  point 
or  pungency  than  is  altogether  consonant  with  his 
character  as  judge.  Some  five  years  ago  there  ap 
peared  in  the  Messenger  under  the  editorial  head,  an 
article  on  the  subject  of  the  Pickwick  Papers  and  some 
other  productions  of  Mr.  Dickens.  This  article,  which 
abounded  in  well-written  but  extravagant  denuncia 
tion  of  everything  composed  by  the  author  of  The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop/  and  which  prophesied  his  immediate 
downfall,  we  have  reason  to  believe  was  from  the  pen 
of  Judge  Beverly  Tucker.  We  take  this  opportunity 
of  mentioning  the  subject,  because  the  odium  of  the 
paper  in  question  fell  altogether  upon  our  shoulders, 
and  it  is  a  burden  we  are  not  disposed  and  never  in 
tended  to  bear.  The  review  appeared  in  March,  we 
think,  and  we  had  retired  from  the  Messenger  in  the 
January  preceding.  About  eighteen  months  pre 
viously,  and  when  Mr.  Dickens  was  scarcely  known 
to  the  public  at  all,  except  as  the  author  of  some  brief 
tales  and  essays,  the  writer  of  this  article  took  occa 
sion  to  predict  in  the  Messengerf  and  in  the  most 
emphatic  manner,  that  high  and  just  distinction  which 
the  author  in  question  has  attained.  Judge  Tucker's 
MS.  is  diminutive,  but  neat  and  legible,  and  has  much 
force  and  precision,  with  little  of  the  picturesque.  The 
care  which  he  bestows  upon  his  literary  compositions 
makes  itself  manifest  also  in  his  chirography.  The 
signature  is  more  florid  than  the  general  hand. 

IOO 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


Mr.  Sanderson,  Professor  of  the  Greek  and  Latin 
Languages  in  the  High  School  of  Philadelphia,  is  well 
known  as  the  author  of  a  series  of  letters  entitled  The 
American  in  Paris,  These  are  distinguished  by  ease 
and  vivacity  of  style,  with  occasional  profundity  of 
observation,  and,  above  all,  by  the  frequency  of  their 
illustrative  anecdotes  and  figures.  In  all  these  par 
ticulars  Professor  Sanderson  is  the  precise  counterpart 
of  Judge  Beverly  Tucker,  author  of  George  Balcombe. 
The  MSS.  of  the  two  gentlemen  are  nearly  identical. 
Both  are  neat,  clear,  and  legible.  Mr.  Sanderson's  is 
somewhat  the  more  crowded. 


About  Miss  Gould's  MS.  there  are  great  neatness, 
picturesqueness,  and  finish,  without  over-effeminacy. 
The  literary  style  of  one  who  writes  thus  will  always 
be  remarkable  for  sententiousness  and  epigrammatism ; 
and  these  are  the  leading  features  of  Miss  Gould's  poetry. 


Professor  Henry,  of  Bristol  College,  is  chiefly  known 
by  his  contributions  to  our  quarterlies,  and  as  one  of 
the  originators  of  the  New  York Review in  conjunction 

101 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

with  Dr.  Hawks  and  Professor  Anthon.  His  chirog- 
raphy  is  now  neat  and  picturesque  (much  resemb 
ling  that  of  Judge  Tucker),  and  now  excessively 
scratchy,  clerky,  and  slovenly,  so  that  it  is  nearly  im 
possible  to  say  anything  respecting  it,  except  that  it 
indicates  a  vacillating  disposition  with  unsettled  ideas 
of  the  beautiful.  None  of  his  epistles,  in  regard  to 
their  chirography,  end  as  well  as  they  begin.  This 
trait  denotes  fatigability.  His  signature,  which  is  bold 
and  decided,  conveys  not  the  faintest  idea  of  the  gen 
eral  MS. 


Mrs.  Embury  is  chiefly  known  by  her  contributions 
to  the  periodicals  of  the  country.  She  is  one  of  the 
most  nervous  of  our  female  writers,  and  is  not  desti 
tute  of  originality,  that  rarest  of  all  qualities  in  a 
woman,  and  especially  in  an  American  woman. 

Her  MS.  evinces  a  strong  disposition  to  fly  off  at  a 
tangent  from  the  old  formulae  of  the  boarding  acad 
emies.  But  in  it,  and  in  her  literary  style,  it  would  be 
well  that  she  should  no  longer  hesitate  to  discard  the 
absurdities  of  mere  fashion. 


Miss  Leslie  is  celebrated  for  the  homely  natural 
ness  of  her  stories  and  for  the  broad  satire  of  her 


TO2 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

comic  style.  She  has  written  much  for  the  magazines. 
Her  chirography  is  distinguished  for  neatness  and  fin 
ish,  without  over-effeminacy.  It  is  rotund  and  some 
what  diminutive,  the  letters  being  separate  and  the 
words  always  finished  with  an  inward  twirl.  She  is 
never  particular  about  the  quality  of  her  paper  or  the 
other  externals  of  epistolary  correspondence.  From 
her  MSS.  in  general,  we  might  suppose  her  solicitous 
rather  about  the  effect  of  her  compositions  as  a  whole 
than  about  the  polishing  of  the  constituent  parts. 
There  is  much  of  the  picturesque  both  in  her  chirog 
raphy  and  in  her  literary  style. 


Mr.  Neal  has  acquired  a  very  extensive  reputation 
through  his  Charcoal  Sketches,  a  series  of  papers  or 
iginally  written  for  the  Saturday  News  of  this  city,  and 
afterward  published  in  book  form,  with  illustrations 
by  Johnston.  The  whole  design  of  the  Charcoal 
Sketches  may  be  stated  as  the  depicting  of  the  wharf 
and  street  loafer;  but  this  design  has  been  executed 
altogether  in  caricature.  The  extreme  of  burlesque 
runs  throughout  the  work,  which  is  also  chargeable 
with  a  tedious  repetition  of  slang  and  incident.  The 
loafer  always  declaims  the  same  nonsense  in  the  same 
style,  gets  drunk  in  the  same  way,  and  is  taken  to  the 

103 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

watch-house  after  the  same  fashion.  Reading  one 
chapter  of  the  book  we  read  all.  Any  single  descrip 
tion  would  have  been  an  original  idea  well  executed, 
but  the  dose  is  repeated  ad  nauseam,  and  betrays  a 
woful  poverty  of  invention.  The  manner  in  which 
Mr.  NeaPs  book  was  belauded  by  his  personal  friends 
of  the  Philadelphia  press  speaks  little  for  their  inde 
pendence  or  less  for  their  taste.  To  dub  the  author 
of  these  Charcoal  Sketches  (which  are  really  very  ex 
cellent  police  reports)  with  the  title  of  "  the  American 
Boz  "  is  either  outrageous  nonsense  or  malevolent 
irony. 

In  other  respects  Mr.  N.  has  evinced  talents  which 
cannot  be  questioned.  He  has  conducted  the  Penn» 
sylvanian  with  credit,  and,  as  a  political  writer,  he 
stands  deservedly  high.  His  MS.  is  simple  and  legi 
ble,  with  much  space  between  the  words.  It  has 
force,  but  little  grace.  Altogether,  his  chirography  is 
good  ;  but  as  he  belongs  to  the  editorial  corps,  it  would 
not  be  just  to  suppose  that  any  deductions  in  respect 
to  character  could  be  gleaned  from  it.  His  signature 
conveys  the  general  MS.  with  accuracy. 


Mr.  Seba  Smith  has  become  somewhat  widely  cele 
brated  as  the  author,  in  part,  of  the  Letters  of  Major 
Jack  Downing.  These  were  very  clever  productions, 

104 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

coarse,  but  full  of  fun,  wit,  sarcasm,  and  sense.  Their 
manner  rendered  them  exceedingly  popular,  until  their 
success  tempted  into  the  field  a  host  of  brainless  imi 
tators.  Mr.  S.  is  also  the  author  of  several  poems; 
among  others,  of  Powhatan  s  A  Metrical  Romancet 
which  we  do  not  very  particularly  admire.  His  MS.  is 
legible,  and  has  much  simplicity  about  it.  At  times 
it  vacillates  and  appears  unformed.  Upon  the  whole, 
it  is  much  such  a  MS.  as  David  Crockett  wrote,  and 
precisely  such  a  one  as  we  might  imagine  would  be 
written  by  a  veritable  Jack  Downing — by  Jack  Down 
ing  himself,  had  this  creature  of  Mr.  Smith's  fancy 
been  endowed  with  a  real  entity.  The  fact  is  that 
the  "  Major  "  is  not  all  a  creation ;  at  least  one  half 
of  his  character  actually  exists  in  the  bosom  of  his 
originator.  It  was  the  Jack  Downing  half  that  com 
posed  Powhatan, 


Lieutenant  Slidell  some  years  ago  took  the  addi 
tional  name  of  Mackenzie.  His  reputation  at  one 
period  was  extravagantly  high,  a  circumstance  owing, 
in  some  measure,  to  the  esprit  de  corps  of  the  navy,  of 
which  he  is  a  member,  and  to  his  private  influence, 
through  his  family,  with  the  review  cliques.  Yet  his 
fame  was  not  altogether  undeserved ;  although  it  can 
not  be  denied  that  his  first  book,  A  Year  in  Spaint  was 

105 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

in  some  danger  of  being  overlooked  by  his  country 
men,  until  a  benignant  star  directed  the  attention  of 
the  London  bookseller,  Murray,  to  its  merits.  Cock 
ney  octavos  prevailed;  and  the  clever  young  writer, 
who  was  cut  dead  in  his  Yankee  habiliments,  met  with 
bows  innumerable  in  the  gala  dress  of  an  English  im* 
primatur.  The  work  now  ran  through  several  edi 
tions,  and  prepared  the  public  for  the  kind  reception  of 
The  American  in.  England  which  exalted  his  reputa 
tion  to  its  highest  pinnacle.  Both  these  books  abound 
in  racy  descriptions,  but  are  chiefly  remarkable  for 
their  gross  deficiencies  in  grammatical  construction. 

Lieutenant  Slidell's  MS.  is  peculiarly  neat  and  even 
— quite  legible,  but  altogether  too  petite  and  effeminate. 
Few  tokens  of  his  literary  character  are  to  be  found 
beyond  the  petitenessf  which  is  exactly  analogous  with 
the  minute  detail  of  his  descriptions. 


Francis  Lieber  is  Professor  of  History  and  Politi 
cal  Economy  hi  the  College  of  South  Carolina,  and  has 
published  many  works  distinguished  by  acumen  and 
erudition.  Among  these  we  may  notice  a  Journal  of 
a  Residence  in  Greece,  written  at  the  instigation  of  the 
historian  Niebuhr ;  The  Stranger  in  America,  a  piquant 
book  abounding  in  various  information  relative  to  the 
United  States ;  a  treatise  on  Education  /  Reminist 

106 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

cences  of  an  Intercourse  with  Niebuhr ;  and  an  Essay 
on  International  Copyright, — this  last  a  valuable  work. 
Professor  Lieber's  personal  character  is  that  of  the 
frankest  and  most  unpretending  bonhomie,  while  his 
erudition  is  rather  massive  than  minute.  We  may 
therefore  expect  his  MS.  to  differ  widely  from  that  of 
his  brother  scholar,  Professor  Anthon ;  and  so  in  truth 
it  does.  His  chirography  is  careless,  heavy,  black,  and 
forcible,  without  the  slightest  attempt  at  ornament, 
very  similar,  upon  the  whole,  to  the  well-known  chirog 
raphy  of  Chief- Justice  Marshall.  His  letters  have  the 
peculiarity  of  a  wide  margin  left  at  the  top  of  each 
page. 


Mrs.  Hale  is  well  known  for  her  masculine  style  of 
thought.  This  is  clearly  expressed  in  her  chirography, 
which  is  far  larger,  heavier,  and  altogether  bolder  than 
that  of  her  sex  generally.  It  resembles  in  a  great 
degree  that  of  Professor  Lieber,  and  is  not  easily 
deciphered. 


Mr.  Everett's  MS.  is  a  noble  one.  It  has  about  it 
an  air  of  deliberate  precision  emblematic  of  the  states 
man  and  a  mingled  grace  and  solidity  betokening  the 

107 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

scholar.  Nothing  can  be  more  legible,  and  nothing 
need  be  more  uniform.  The  man  who  writes  thus  will 
never  grossly  err  in  judgment  or  otherwise;  but  we 
may  also  venture  to  say  that  he  will  never  attain  the 
loftiest  pinnacle  of  renown.  The  letters  before  us  have 
a  seal  of  red  wax,  with  an  oval  device  bearing  the 
initials  E.  £.  and  surrounded  with  a  scroll,  inscribed 
with  some  Latin  words  which  are  illegible. 


Dr.  Bird  is  well  known  as  the  author  of  The  Gladi* 
atoff  Calavar,  The  Infidelt  Nick  of  the  Woods,  and 
some  other  works,  Calavar  being,  we  think,  by  far 
the  best  of  them,  and  beyond  doubt  one  of  the  best  of 
American  novels. 

His  chirography  resembles  that  of  Mr.  Benjamin 
very  closely,  the  chief  difference  being  in  a  curl  of  the 
final  letters  in  Dr.  B.'s.  The  characters,  too,  have  the 
air  of  not  being  able  to  keep  pace  with  the  thought, 
and  an  uneasy  want  of  finish  seems  to  have  been  the 
consequence.  A  vivid  imagination  might  easily  be 
deduced  from  such  a  MS. 


Mr.  John  Neal's  MS.  is  exceedingly  illegible  and 
careless.     Many  of  his  epistles  are  perfect  enigmas, 

1 08 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


flothing  can  be  more  legible,  and  nothing 
be  more  uniform.  The  man  who  writes  thus  will 
mnrer  grossly  err  in  judgment  or  otherwise;  but  we 
My  also  venture  to  say  that  he  will  never  attain  the 
loftiest  pinnacle  of  renown.  The  letters  before  us  have 
a  seal  of  red  wax,  with  an  oval  device  bearing  the 
initials  £.  £.  and  surrounded  with  a  scroll,  inscribed 
with  some  Latin  words  which  are  illegible. 


Dr.  Bird  is  well  known  as  the  author  of  The 
ator.  C*/*w,    7l£<tall&  RHFSPtte  Woods,  and 
some  ater  workFrom  a  steel  engreyiuge  think,  by  far 


the  best  of  them, 
American 

very  clos«l  v  .  tfcr 
final  letters  m  0r. 
air  of  not  MM§  a 
and  an  uneasy  VM 
consequence.     A  -> 
deduced  from 


one  of  the  best  of 


ki  «  aid  of  the 
e  ifcarauli  in,  too,  have  the 

t?  IMM»  nM  ttM  thought, 
**  HMHHI  to  have  been  the 
^ptuition  might  easily  be 


Mr.  John  Weal's  MS.  is  exceedingly  illegible  and 
Many  of  Mi  epistles  are  perfect  enigmas, 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

and  we  doubt  whether  he  could  read  them  himself  in 
half  an  hour  after  they  are  penned.  Sometimes  four 
or  five  words  are  run  together.  Any  one,  from  Mr. 
Neal's  penmanship,  might  suppose  his  mind  to  be  what 
it  really  is — excessively  flighty  and  irregular,  but  active 
and  energetic. 


The  penmanship  of  Miss  Sedgwick  is  excellent.  The 
characters  are  well-sized,  distinct,  elegantly  but  not 
ostentatiously  formed,  and,  with  perfect  freedom  of 
manner,  are  still  sufficiently  feminine.  The  hair- 
strokes  differ  little  from  the  downward  ones,  and  the 
MSS.  have  thus  a  uniformity  they  might  not  otherwise 
have.  The  paper  she  generally  uses  is  good,  blue,  and 
machine-ruled.  Miss  Sedgwick's  handwriting  points 
unequivocally  to  the  traits  of  her  literary  style,  which 
are  strong  common  sense  and  a  masculine  disdain  of 
mere  ornament.  The  signature  conveys  the  general 
chirography. 


Mr.  Cooper's  MS.  is  very  bad  —  unformed,  with  little 
of  distinctive  character  about  it,  and  varying  greatly 
in  different  epistles.  In  most  of  those  before  us  a 
steel  pen  has  been  employed,  the  lines  are  crooked,  and 

IOQ 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

the  whole  chirography  has  a  constrained  and  school- 
boyish  air.  The  paper  is  fine  and  of  a  bluish  tint.  A 
wafer  is  always  used.  Without  appearing  ill-natured 
we  could  scarcely  draw  any  inferences  from  such  a 
MS.  Mr.  Cooper  has  seen  many  vicissitudes,  and  it 
is  probable  that  he  has  not  always  written  thus.  What 
ever  are  his  faults,  his  genius  cannot  be  doubted. 


Dr.  Hawks  is  one  of  the  originators  of  the  New  York 
Review,  to  which  journal  he  has  furnished  many  ar 
ticles.  He  is  also  known  as  the  author  of  The  ///$/• 
tory  of  the  Episcopal  Church  of  Virginia  and  one  or 
two  minor  works.  He  now  edits  the  Church  Record, 
His  style,  both  as  a  writer  and  as  a  preacher,  is  charac 
terized  rather  by  a  perfect  fluency  than  by  any  more 
lofty  quality,  and  this  trait  is  strikingly  indicated  in 
his  chirography,  of  which  the  signature  is  a  fair  spe 
cimen. 


This  gentleman  is  the  author  of  Cromwell,  The 
Brothers,  Ringwood  the  Rover,  and  some  other  minor 
productions.  He  at  one  time  edited  the  American 
Monthly  Magazine  in  connection  with  Mr.  Hoffman. 
In  his  compositions  for  the  magazines,  Mr.  Herbert 

no 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

is  in  the  habit  of  doing  both  them  and  himself  gross 
injustice  by  neglect  and  hurry.  His  longer  works 
evince  much  ability,  although  he  is  rarely  entitled  to 
be  called  original.  His  MS.  is  exceedingly  neat,  clear, 
and  forcible,  the  signature  affording  a  just  idea  of  it. 
It  resembles  that  of  Mr.  Kennedy  very  nearly,  but  has 
more  slope  and  uniformity,  with,  of  course,  less  spirit, 
and  less  of  the  picturesque.  He  who  writes  as  Mr. 
Herbert  will  be  found  always  to  depend  chiefly  upon 
his  merits  of  style  for  a  literary  reputation  and  will 
not  be  unapt  to  fall  into  a  pompous  grandiloquence. 
The  author  of  Cromwell  is  sometimes  wofully  turgid. 


Professor  Palfrey  is  known  to  the  public  principally 
through  his  editorship  of  the  North  American  Review. 
He  has  a  reputation  for  scholarship  ;  and  many  of  the 
articles  which  are  attributed  to  his  pen  evince  that  this 
reputation  is  well  based,  so  far  as  the  common  notion 
of  scholarship  extends.  For  the  rest,  he  seems  to 
dwell  altogether  within  the  narrow  world  of  his  own 
conceptions,  imprisoning  them  by  the  very  barrier 
which  he  has  erected  against  the  conceptions  of  others. 

His  MS.  shows  a  total  deficiency  in  the  sense  of  the 
in 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

beautiful.  It  has  great  pretension,  great  straining 
after  effect,  but  is  altogether  one  of  the  most  miserable 
MSS.  in  the  world,  forceless,  graceless,  tawdry,  vacil 
lating,  and  unpicturesque.  The  signature  conveys  but 
a  faint  idea  of  its  extravagance.  However  much  we 
may  admire  the  mere  knowledge  of  the  man  who 
writes  thus,  it  will  not  do  to  place  any  dependence  upon 
his  wisdom  or  upon  his  taste. 


F.  W.  Thomas,  who  began  his  literary  career  at 
the  early  age  of  seventeen,  by  a  poetical  lampoon  upon 
certain  Baltimore  fops,  has  since  more  particularly 
distinguished  himself  as  a  novelist.  His  Clinton  Brad* 
shawe  is  perhaps  better  known  than  any  of  his  later 
fictions.  It  is  remarkable  for  a  frank,  unscrupulous 
portraiture  of  men  and  things,  in  high  life  and  low, 
and  by  unusual  discrimination  and  observation  in  re 
spect  to  character.  Since  its  publication  he  has  pro 
duced  East  and  West  and  Howard  Pinckneyf  neither 
of  which  seems  to  have  been  so  popular  as  his  first 
essay,  although  both  have  merit. 

East  and  West,  published  in  1836,  was  an  attempt 
to  portray  the  every-day  events  occurring  to  a  fallen 
family  emigrating  from  the  East  to  the  West.  In  it, 
as  in  Clinton  Bradshawef  most  of  the  characters  are 

112 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

drawn  from  life.  Howard  Pinckney  was  published  in 
1840. 

Mr.  Thomas  was  at  one  period  the  editor  of  the  Cin 
cinnati  Commercial  Advertiser.  He  is  also  well  known 
as  a  public  lecturer  on  a  variety  of  topics.  His  con 
versational  powers  are  very  great.  As  a  poet,  he  has 
also  distinguished  himself.  His  Emigrant  will  be  read 
with  pleasure  by  every  person  of  taste. 

His  MS.  is  more  like  that  of  Mr.  Benjamin  than  that 
of  any  other  literary  person  of  our  acquaintance.  It 
has  even  more  than  the  occasional  nervousness  of 
Mr.  B.'s,  and,  as  in  the  case  of  the  editor  of  the  New 
World/  indicates  the  passionate  sensibility  of  the  man. 


Mr.  Morris  ranks,  we  believe,  as  the  first  of  our 
Philadelphia  poets  since  the  death  of  Willis  Gaylord 
Clark.  His  compositions,  like  those  of  his  late  la 
mented  friend,  are  characterized  by  sweetness  rather 
than  strength  of  versification,  and  by  tenderness  and 
delicacy  rather  than  by  vigor  or  originality  of  thought. 
A  late  notice  of  him  in  the  Boston  Notion,  from  the 
pen  of  Rufus  W.  Griswold,  did  his  high  qualities  no 

VOL.  X.— 8. 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

more  than  justice.  As  a  prose  writer,  he  is  chiefly 
known  by  his  editorial  contributions  to  the  Philadel 
phia  Inquirer,  and  by  occasional  essays  for  the  maga 
zines. 

His  chirography  is  usually  very  illegible,  although  at 
times  sufficiently  distinct.  It  has  no  marked  charac 
teristics,  and,  like  that  of  almost  every  editor  in  the 
country,  has  been  so  modified  by  the  circumstances  of 
his  position  as  to  afford  no  certain  indication  of  the 
mental  features. 


Ezra  Holden  has  written  much,  not  only  for  his 
paper,  the  Saturday  Courier,  but  for  our  periodicals 
generally,  and  stands  high  in  the  public  estimation  as 
a  sound  thinker,  and  still  more  particularly  as  a  fear 
less  expresser  of  his  thoughts. 

His  MS.  (which  we  are  constrained  to  say  is  a  shock 
ingly  bad  one,  and  whose  general  features  may  be 
seen  in  his  signature)  indicates  the  frank  and  naive 
manner  of  his  literary  style,  a  style  which  not  unfre- 
quently  flies  off  into  whimsicalities. 

114 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


Mr.  Graham  is  known  to  the  literary  world  as  the 
editor  and  proprietor  of  Graham's  Magazine,  the  most 
popular  periodical  hi  America,  and  also  of  the  Satuf 
day  Evening  Post  of  Philadelphia.  For  both  of  these 
journals  he  has  written  much  and  well. 

His  MS.  generally  is  very  bad,  or  at  least  very  illeg 
ible.  At  times  it  is  sufficiently  distinct,  and  has  force 
and  picturesqueness,  speaking  plainly  of  the  energy 
which  particularly  distinguishes  him  as  a  man.  The 
signature  above  is  more  scratchy  than  usual. 


Colonel  Stone,  the  editor  of  the  New  York  Com* 
mercial  Advertiser,  is  remarkable  for  the  great  differ 
ence  which  exists  between  the  apparent  public  opinion 
respecting  his  abilities  and  the  real  estimation  in  which 
he  is  privately  held.  Through  his  paper,  and  the 
bustling  activity  always  prone  to  thrust  itself  forward, 
he  has  attained  an  unusual  degree  of  influence  in  New 
York,  and,  not  only  this,  but  what  appears  to  be  a 
reputation  for  talent.  But  this  talent  we  do  not  re 
member  ever  to  have  heard  assigned  him  by  any  hon 
est  man's  private  opinion.  We  place  him  among  our 

"5 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

literati  because  he  has  published  certain  books.  Per 
haps  the  best  of  these  are  his  Life  of  Brandt  and  Life 
and  Times  of  Red  Jacket  Of  the  rest,  his  story  called 
Ups  and  Downs,  his  defence  of  animal  magnetism,  and 
his  pamphlets  concerning  Maria  Monk  are  scarcely 
the  most  absurd.  His  MS.  is  heavy  and  sprawling,  re 
sembling  his  mental  character  in  a  species  of  utter 
unmeaningness,  which  lies,  like  the  nightmare,  upon 
his  autograph. 


The  labors  of  Mr.  Sparks,  Professor  of  History  at 
Harvard,  are  well  known  and  justly  appreciated.  His 
MS.  has  an  unusually  odd  appearance.  The  characters 
are  large,  round,  black,  irregular,  and  perpendicular, 
the  signature,  as  above,  being  an  excellent  specimen 
of  his  chirography  in  general.  In  all  his  letters  now 
before  us,  the  lines  are  as  close  together  as  possible, 
giving  the  idea  of  irretrievable  confusion;  still,  none 
of  them  are  illegible  upon  close  inspection.  We  can 
form  no  guess  in  regard  to  any  mental  peculiarities 
from  Mr.  Sparks's  MS.,  which  has  been,  no  doubt, 
modified  by  the  hurrying  and  intricate  nature  of  his 
researches.  We  might  imagine  such  epistles  as  these 
to  have  been  written  in  extreme  haste,  by  a  man  ex 
ceedingly  busy,  among  great  piles  of  books  and  papers 

116 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

huddled  up  around  him,  like  the  chaotic  tomes  of 
Magliabecchi.  The  paper  used  in  all  our  epistles  is 
uncommonly  fine. 


The  name  of  H.  S.  Legare  is  written  without  an 
accent  on  the  final  "  e,"  yet  is  pronounced  as  if  this 
letter  were  accented — Legaray.  He  contributed  many 
articles  of  merit  to  the  Southern  Review,  and  has  a 
wide  reputation  for  scholarship  and  talent.  His  MS. 
resembles  that  of  Mr.  Palfrey  of  the  North  American 
Review,  and  their  mental  features  appear  to  us  nearly 
identical.  What  we  have  said  in  regard  to  the  chirog- 
raphy  of  Mr.  Palfrey  will  apply  with  equal  force  to 
that  of  the  present  secretary. 


Mr.  George  Lunt,  of  Newburyport,  Massachusetts, 
is  known  as  a  poet  of  much  vigor  of  style  and  massive- 
ness  of  thought.  He  delights  in  the  grand  rather  than 
hi  the  beautiful,  and  is  not  unfrequently  turgid,  but 
never  feeble.  The  traits  here  described  impress  them- 

117 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

selves  with  remarkable  distinctness  upon  his  chirog- 
raphy,  of  which  the  signature  gives  a  perfect  idea. 


Mr.  Chandler's  reputation  as  the  editor  of  one  of 
the  best  daily  papers  in  the  country,  and  as  one  of  our 
finest  belles-lettres  scholars,  is  deservedly  high.  He  is 
well  known  through  his  numerous  addresses,  essays, 
miscellaneous  sketches,  and  prose  tales.  Some  of 
these  latter  evince  imaginative  powers  of  a  superior 
order. 

His  MS.  is  not  fairly  shown  in  his  signature,  the  lat 
ter  being  much  more  open  and  bold  than  his  general 
chirography.  His  handwriting  must  be  included  in 
the  editorial  category;  it  seems  to  have  been  ruined 
by  habitual  hurry. 


H.  T.  Tuckerman  has  written  one  or  two  books 
consisting  of  Sketches  of  Travels,  His  Isabel  is,  per 
haps,  better  known  than  any  of  his  other  productions, 
but  was  never  a  popular  work.  He  is  a  correct  writer 
so  far  as  mere  English  is  concerned,  but  an  insuffer 
ably  tedious  and  dull  one.  He  has  contributed  much 
of  late  days  to  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  with 

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A  Chapter  on  Autography 

which  journal,  perhaps,  the  legibility  of  his  MS.  has 
been  an  important,  if  not  the  principal,  recommenda 
tion.  His  chirography  is  neat  and  distinct,  and  has 
some  grace,  but  no  force,  evincing,  in  a  remarkable 
degree,  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  writer. 


Mr.  Godey  is  only  known  to  the  literary  world  as 
editor  and  publisher  of  The  Lady's  Book,  but  his  celeb 
rity  in  this  regard  entitles  him  to  a  place  in  this  collec 
tion.  His  MS.  is  remarkably  distinct  and  graceful, 
the  signature  affording  an  excellent  idea  of  it.  The 
man  who  invariably  writes  so  well  as  Mr.  G.  invariably 
does,  gives  evidence  of  a  fine  taste,  combined  with  an 
indef  atigability  which  will  insure  his  permanent  success 
in  the  world's  affairs.  No  man  has  warmer  friends  or 
fewer  enemies. 


Mr.  Du  Solle  is  well  known  through  his  connection 
with  the  Spirit  of  the  Times,    His  prose  is  forcible,  and 

119 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

often  excellent  in  other  respects.  As  a  poet  he  is  en 
titled  to  higher  consideration.  Some  of  his  Pindaric 
pieces  are  unusually  good,  and  it  may  be  doubted  if 
we  have  a  better  versifier  in  America. 

Accustomed  to  the  daily  toil  of  an  editor,  he  has 
contracted  a  habit  of  writing  hurriedly,  and  his  MS. 
varies  with  the  occasion.  It  is  impossible  to  deduce 
any  inferences  from  it  as  regards  the  mental  character. 
The  signature  shows  rather  how  he  can  write  than 
how  he  does. 


Mr.  French  is  the  author  of  a  life  of  David  Crockett 
and  also  of  a  novel  called  Elkswattawa,  a  denun 
ciatory  review  of  which,  in  the  Southern  Messenger 
some  years  ago,  deterred  him  from  further  literary 
attempts.  Should  he  write  again,  he  will  probably 
distinguish  himself,  for  he  is  unquestionably  a  man  of 
talent.  We  need  no  better  evidence  of  this  than  his 
MS.,  which  speaks  of  force,  boldness,  and  originality. 
The  flourish,  however,  betrays  a  certain  floridity  of 
taste. 

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A  Chapter  on  Autography 


3^* 


The  author  of  Norman  Leslie  and  The  Countess  Ida 
has  been  more  successful  as  an  essayist  about  small 
matters  than  as  a  novelist.  Norman  Leslie  is  more 
familiarly  remembered  as  The  Great  Used  Upf  while 
The  Countess  made  no  definite  impression  whatever. 
Of  course  we  are  not  to  expect  remarkable  features  hi 
Mr.  Fay's  MS.  It  has  a  wavering,  finicky,  and  over- 
delicate  air,  without  pretension  to  either  grace  or  force ; 
and  the  description  of  the  chirography  would  answer, 
without  alteration,  for  that  of  the  literary  character. 
Mr.  F.  frequently  employs  an  amanuensis,  who  writes 
a  beautiful  French  hand.  The  one  must  not  be  con 
founded  with  the  other. 


Dr.  Mitchell  has  published  several  pretty  songs 
which  have  been  set  to  music  and  become  popular. 
He  has  also  given  to  the  world  a  volume  of  poems,  of 
which  the  longest  was  remarkable  for  an  old-fashioned 
polish  and  vigor  of  versification.  His  MS.  is  rather 
graceful  than  picturesque  or  forcible,  and  these  words 
apply  equally  well  to  his  poetry  in  general.  The  sig 
nature  indicates  the  hand. 

121 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


General  Morris  has  composed  many  songs  which 
have  taken  fast  hold  upon  the  popular  taste,  and  which 
are  deservedly  celebrated.  He  has  caught  the  true 
tone  for  these  things  and  hence  his  popularity — a  pop 
ularity  which  his  enemies  would  fain  make  us  believe 
is  altogether  attributable  to  his  editorial  influence. 
The  charge  is  true  only  hi  a  measure.  The  tone  of 
which  we  speak  is  that  kind  of  frank,  free,  hearty  sen 
timent  (rather  than  philosophy)  which  distinguishes 
Be*ranger,  and  which  the  critics,  for  want  of  a  better 
term,  call  "  nationality." 

His  MS.  is  a  simple  unornamented  hand,  rather  ro 
tund  than  angular,  very  legible,  forcible,  and  altogether 
in  keeping  with  his  style. 


Mr.  Calvert  was  at  one  time  principal  editor  of  the 
Baltimore  American,  and  wrote  for  that  journal  some 
good  paragraphs  on  the  common  topics  of  the  day. 
He  has  also  published  many  translations  from  the 
German  and  one  or  two  original  poems,  among  others 
an  imitation  of  Don  Juan  called  Pelayo,  which  did  him 
no  credit.  He  is  essentially  a  feeble  and  common- 

122 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

place  writer  of  poetry,  although  his  prose  composi 
tions  have  a  certain  degree  of  merit.  His  chirography 
indicates  the  "  commonplace  "  upon  which  we  have 
commented.  It  is  a  very  usual,  scratchy,  and  taper 
ing  clerk's  hand — a  hand  which  no  man  of  talent  ever 
did  or  could  indite,  unless  compelled  by  circumstances 
of  more  than  ordinary  force.  The  signature  is  far 
better  than  the  general  manuscript  of  his  epistles. 


Mr.  Mcjilton  is  better  known  from  his  contributions 
to  the  journals  of  the  day  than  from  any  book-publi 
cations.  He  has  much  talent,  and  it  is  not  improb 
able  that  he  will  hereafter  distinguish  himself,  although 
as  yet  he  has  not  composed  anything  of  length  which, 
as  a  whole,  can  be  styled  good.  His  MS.  is  not  unlike 
that  of  Dr.  Snodgrass,  but  it  is  somewhat  clearer  and 
better.  We  can  predicate  little  respecting  it  beyond 
a  love  of  exaggeration  and  bizarrerie. 


Mr.  Gallagher  is  chiefly  known  as  a  poet.    He  is 
the  author  of  some  of  our  most  popular  songs,  and  has 

123 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

written  many  long  pieces  of  high  but  unequal  merit. 
He  has  the  true  spirit,  and  will  rise  into  a  just  dis 
tinction  hereafter.  His  manuscript  tallies  well  with 
our  opinion.  It  is  a  very  fine  one— clear,  bold,  de 
cided,  and  picturesque.  The  signature  above  does  not 
convey,  in  full  force,  the  general  character  of  his 
chirography,  which  is  more  rotund,  and  more  decidedly 
placed  upon  the  paper. 


Mr.  Dana  ranks  among  our  most  eminent  poets, 
and  he  has  been  the  frequent  subject  of  comment  hi 
our  reviews.  He  has  high  qualities,  undoubtedly,  but 
his  defects  are  many  and  great. 

His  MS.  resembles  that  of  Mr.  Gallagher  very  nearly, 
but  is  somewhat  more  rolling,  and  has  less  boldness 
and  decision.  The  literary  traits  of  the  two  gentle 
men  are  very  similar,  although  Mr.  Dana  is  by  far  the 
more  polished  writer  and  has  a  scholarship  which  Mr. 
Gallagher  wants. 


Mr.  McMichael  is  well  known  to  the  Philadelphia 
public  by  the  number  and  force  of  his  prose  com 
positions,  but  he  has  seldom  been  tempted  into 
book-publication.  As  a  poet,  he  has  produced  some 

124 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

remarkably  vigorous  things.  We  have  seldom  seen 
a  finer  composition  than  a  certain  celebrated  Monody 
of  his. 

His  MS.,  when  not  hurried,  is  graceful  and  flowing, 
without  picturesqueness.  At  times  it  is  totally  illeg 
ible.  His  chirography  is  one  of  those  which  have  been 
so  strongly  modified  by  circumstances  that  it  is  nearly 
impossible  to  predicate  anything  with  certainty  re 
specting  them. 


Mr.  N.  C.  Brooks  has  acquired  some  reputation  as 
a  magazine  writer.  His  serious  prose  is  often  very 
good,  is  always  well  worded ;  but  in  his  comic  attempts 
he  fails,  without  appearing  to  be  aware  of  his  failure. 
As  a  poet  he  has  succeeded  far  better.  In  a  work 
which  he  entitled  Scriptural  Anthology,  among  many 
inferior  compositions  of  length  there  were  several 
shorter  pieces  of  great  merit;  for  example,  Shelley's 
Obsequies  and  The  Nicthanthes,  Of  late  days  we  have 
seen  little  from  his  pen. 

His  MS.  has  much  resemblance  to  that  of  Mr.  Bry 
ant,  although  altogether  it  is  a  better  hand,  with  much 
more  freedom  and  grace.  With  care  Mr.  Brooks  can 
write  a  fine  MS.,  just  as,  with  care,  he  can  compose  a 
fine  poem. 

125 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


The  Rev.  Thomas  H.  Stockton  has  written  many 
pieces  of  fine  poetry,  and  has  lately  distinguished  him 
self  as  the  editor  of  the  Christian  World. 

His  MS.  is  fairly  represented  by  his  signature,  and 
bears  much  resemblance  to  that  of  Mr.  N.  C.  Brooks 
of  Baltimore.  Between  these  two  gentlemen  there 
exists  also  a  remarkable  similarity,  not  only  of  thought 
but  of  personal  bearing  and  character.  We  have 
already  spoken  of  the  peculiarities  of  Mr.  B.'s  chirog- 
raphy. 


Mr.  Thomson  has  written  many  short  poems,  and 
some  of  them  possess  merit.  They  are  characterized 
by  tenderness  and  grace.  His  MS.  has  some  resem 
blance  to  that  of  Professor  Longfellow,  and  by  many 
persons  would  be  thought  a  finer  hand.  It  is  clear, 
legible,  and  open  —  what  is  called  a  rolling  hand.  It 
has  too  much  tapering  and  too  much  variation  between 
the  weight  of  the  hair-strokes  and  the  downward  ones 
to  be  forcible  or  picturesque.  In  all  those  qualities 
which  we  have  pointed  out  as  especially  distinctive  of 
Professor  Longfellow's  MS.  it  is  remarkably  deficient; 

126 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

and,  in  fact,  the  literary  character  of  no  two  individ 
uals  could  be  more  radically  different. 


The  Reverend  W.  E.  Channing  is  at  the  head  of 
our  moral  and  didactic  writers.  His  reputation  both 
at  home  and  abroad  is  deservedly  high,  and  in  regard 
to  the  matters  of  purity,  polish,  and  modulation  of 
style  he  may  be  said  to  have  attained  the  dignity  of  a 
standard  and  a  classic.  He  has,  it  is  true,  been  se 
verely  criticised,  even  in  respect  to  these  very  points, 
by  the  Edinburgh  Review,  The  critic,  however,  made 
out  his  case  but  lamely,  and  proved  nothing  beyond 
his  own  incompetence.  To  detect  occasional  or  even 
frequent  inadvertences  in  the  way  of  bad  grammar, 
faulty  construction,  or  misusage  of  language,  is  not  to 
prove  impurity  of  style,  a  word  which  happily  has  a 
bolder  signification  than  any  dreamed  of  by  the  Zoilus 
of  the  review  in  question.  Style  regards,  more  than 
anything  else,  the  tone  of  a  composition.  All  the  rest 
is  not  unimportant,  to  be  sure,  but  appertains  to  the 
minor  morals  of  literature  and  can  be  learned  by  rote 
by  the  meanest  simpletons  in  letters;  can  be  carried 
to  its  highest  excellence  by  dolts,  who,  upon  the  whole, 

127 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

are  despicable  as  stylists.  Irving's  style  is  inimitable 
in  its  grace  and  delicacy,  yet  few  of  our  practised 
writers  are  guilty  of  more  frequent  inadvertences  of 
language.  In  what  may  be  termed  his  mere  English, 
he  is  surpassed  by  fifty  whom  we  could  name.  Mr. 
Tuckerman's  English,  on  the  contrary,  is  sufficiently 
pure,  but  a  more  lamentable  style  than  that  of  his 
Sicily  it  would  be  difficult  to  point  out. 

Besides  those  peculiarities  which  we  have  already 
mentioned  as  belonging  to  Dr.  Channing's  style,  we 
must  not  fail  to  mention  a  certain  calm,  broad  delib- 
erateness,  which  constitutes  force  in  its  highest  char 
acter  and  approaches  to  majesty.  All  these  traits  will 
be  found  to  exist  plainly  in  his  chirography,  the  charac 
ter  of  which  is  exemplified  by  the  signature,  although 
this  is  somewhat  larger  than  the  general  manuscript. 


Mr.  Wilmer  has  written  and  published  much;  but 
he  has  reaped  the  usual  fruits  of  a  spirit  of  indepen 
dence,  and  has  thus  failed  to  make  that  impression  on 
the  popular  mind  which  his  talents,  under  other  cir 
cumstances,  would  have  effected.  But  better  days  are 
in  store  for  him,  and  for  all  who  "  hold  to  the  right 
way,"  despising  the  yelpings  of  the  small  dogs  of  our 

128 


•after  wi  Autography 

tt*  at  stytitte.  Inriaf**  atyii  ts  «tmitable 
e  and  delicacy,  yet  few  of  our  practised 
guilty  of  more  frequent  inadvertences  of 
In  what  may  be  termed  his  mere  English, 
be  is  surpassed  by  fifty  whom  we  could  name.  Mr. 
Tuckerman's  English,  on  the  contrary,  is  sufficiently 
pure,  but  a  more  lamentable  style  than  that  of  his 
Sicily  it  would  be  difficult  to  point  out. 

Besides  those  peculiarities  which  we  have  already 
mentioned  as  belonging  to  Dr.  Channing's  style,  we 
must  not  fail  to  mention  a  certain  calm,  broad  delib- 
erateness,  whWiltiantitfinkf^c^toiteiiighest  char 
acter  and  approaches  to  majesty.  All  these  traits  will 
be  found  to  tiiat  plainly  in  his  chirography,  the  charac 
ter  of  wbkfe  It  MWMfiified  by  the  stftatare,  although 
this  it  soawrhat  tnpt  flMsB  tbt  fHHMl  niMMMfipt 


Mr.  Wilmer  IMS  iiiiUMi  and  published  much;  but 
he  has  reaped  the  usual  fruits  of  a  spirit  of  indepen 
dence,  and  has  thus  failed  to  make  that  impression  on 
the  popular  mind  which  his  talents,  under  other  cir 
cumstances,  would  have  effected.  But  better  days  are 
in  store  for  him,  and  for  all  who  "  hold  to  the  right 
way,"  despising  the  yelpings  of  the  small  dogs  of  our 

128 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

literature.  His  prose  writings  have  all  merit,  always 
the  merit  of  a  chastened  style.  But  he  is  more  favor 
ably  known  by  his  poetry,  in  which  the  student  of  the 
British  classics  will  find  much  for  warm  admiration. 
We  have  few  better  versifiers  than  Mr.  Wilmer. 

His  chirography  plainly  indicates  the  cautious  polish 
and  terseness  of  his  style,  but  the  signature  does  not 
convey  the  print-like  appearance  of  the  MS. 


Mr.  Dow  is  distinguished  as  the  author  of  many  fine 
sea-pieces,  among  which  will  be  remembered  a  series 
of  papers  called  The  Log  of"  Old  Ironsides"  His  land 
sketches  are  not  generally  so  good.  He  has  a  fine 
imagination,  which  as  yet  is  undisciplined,  and  leads 
him  into  occasional  bombast.  As  a  poet  he  has  done 
better  things  than  as  a  writer  of  prose. 

His  MS.,  which  has  been  strongly  modified  by  cir 
cumstances,  gives  no  indication  of  his  true  character, 
literary  or  moral. 


Mr.  Weld  is  well  known  as  the  present  working 
editor  of  the  New  York  Tattler  and  Brother  Jonathan. 
His  attention  was  accidentally  directed  to  literature 

VOL.X.—  Q.  I2 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

about  ten  years  ago,  after  a  minority,  to  use  his  own 
words,  "  spent  at  sea,  in  a  store,  in  a  machine-shop, 
and  in  a  printing-office."  He  is  now,  we  believe, 
about  thirty-one  years  of  age.  His  deficiency  of  what 
is  termed  regular  education  would  scarcely  be  gleaned 
from  his  editorials,  which,  in  general,  are  usually  well 
written.  His  Corrected  Proofs  is  a  work  which  does 
him  high  credit,  and  which  has  been  extensively  cir 
culated,  although  "  printed  at  odd  times  by  himself, 
when  he  had  nothing  else  to  do." 

His  MS.  resembles  that  of  Mr.  Joseph  C.  Neal  in 
many  respects,  but  is  less  open  and  less  legible.  His 
signature  is  altogether  much  better  than  his  general 
chirography. 


Mrs.  M.  St.  Leon  Loud  is  one  of  the  finest  poets  of 
this  country,  possessing,  we  think,  more  of  the  true 
divine  afflatus  than  any  of  her  female  contemporaries. 
She  has,  hi  especial,  imagination  of  no  common  order, 
and,  unlike  many  of  her  sex  whom  we  could  mention, 
is  not 

Content  to  dwell  in  decencies  forever. 

While  she  can,  upon  occasion,  compose  the  ordinary 
metrical  sing-song  with  all  the  decorous  proprieties 
which  are  in  fashion,  she  yet  ventures  very  frequently 
into  a  more  ethereal  region.  We  refer  our  readers  to 

130 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

a  truly  beautiful  little  poem  entitled  the  Dream  of  the 
Lonely  Isle,  lately  published  in  this  magazine. 

Mrs.  Loud's  MS.  is  exceedingly  clear,  neat,  and  for 
cible,  with  just  sufficient  effeminacy  and  no  more. 


Dr.  Pliny  Earle,  of  Frankfort,  Pa.,  has  not  only 
distinguished  himself  by  several  works  on  medical  and 
general  science,  but  has  become  well  known  to  the 
literary  world  of  late  by  a  volume  of  very  fine  poems, 
the  longest,  but  by  no  means  the  best,  of  which  was 
entitled  Marathon,  This  latter  is  not  greatly  inferior 
to  the  Marco  Bozzarls  of  Halleck,  while  some  of  the 
minor  pieces  equal  any  American  poems.  His  chirog- 
raphy  is  peculiarly  neat  and  beautiful,  giving  indication 
of  the  elaborate  finish  which  characterizes  his  com 
positions.  The  signature  conveys  the  general  hand. 


David  Hoffman,  of  Baltimore,  has  not  only  con 
tributed  much  and  well  to  monthly  magazines  and 
reviews,  but  has  given  to  the  world  several  valuable 
publications  in  book  form.  His  style  is  terse,  pun 
gent,  and  otherwise  excellent,  although  disfigured  by 
a  half -comic,  half -serious  pedantry. 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

His  MS.  has  about  it  nothing  strongly  indicative  of 
character* 


S.  D.  Langtree  has  been  long  and  favorably  known 
to  the  public  as  editor  of  the  Georgetown  Metropolitan, 
and  more  lately  of  the  Democratic  Review,  both  of 
which  journals  he  has  conducted  with  distinguished 
success.  As  a  critic  he  has  proved  himself  just,  bold, 
and  acute,  while  his  prose  compositions  generally 
evince  the  man  of  talent  and  taste. 

His  MS.  is  not  remarkably  good,  being  somewhat 
too  scratchy  and  tapering.  We  include  him,  of  course, 
in  the  editorial  category. 


Judge  Conrad  occupies,  perhaps,  the  first  place 
among  our  Philadelphia  literati  He  has  distinguished 
himself  both  as  a  prose  writer  and  a  poet,  not  to  speak 
of  his  high  legal  reputation.  He  has  been  a  frequent 
contributor  to  the  periodicals  of  this  city,  and  we  be 
lieve  to  one  at  least  of  the  Eastern  reviews.  His  first 
production  which  attracted  general  notice  was  a 
tragedy  entitled  Conrad,  King  of  Naples.  It  was 

132 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

performed  at  the  Arch  Street  Theatre,  and  elicited  ap 
plause  from  the  more  judicious.  This  play  was  suc 
ceeded  by  Jack  Cade,  performed  at  the  Walnut  Street 
Theatre,  and  lately  modified  and  reproduced  under  the 
title  of  Aylmere,  In  its  new  dress,  this  drama  has 
been  one  of  the  most  successful  ever  written  by  an 
American,  not  only  attracting  crowded  houses,  but 
extorting  the  good  word  of  our  best  critics.  In  occa 
sional  poetry,  Judge  Conrad  has  also  done  well.  His 
lines,  On  a  Blind  Boy  Soliciting  Charity,  have  been 
greatly  admired,  and  many  of  his  other  pieces  evince 
ability  of  a  high  order.  His  political  fame  is  scarcely 
a  topic  for  these  pages,  and  is,  moreover,  too  much  a 
matter  of  common  observation  to  need  comment  from 
us. 

His  MS.  is  neat,  legible,  and  forcible,  evincing  com 
bined  caution  and  spirit  in  a  very  remarkable  degree. 


The  chirography  of  ex-President  Adams  (whose 
poem,  The  Wants  of  Man,  has  of  late  attracted  so 
much  attention)  is  remarkable  for  a  certain  steadiness 
of  purpose  pervading  the  whole,  and  overcoming  even 
the  constitutional  tremulousness  of  the  writer's  hand. 
Wavering  in  every  letter,  the  entire  MS.  has  yet  a 
firm,  regular,  and  decisive  appearance.  It  is  also  very 
legible. 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


P.  P.  Cooke,  of  Winchester,  Virginia,  is  well  known, 
especially  in  the  South,  as  the  author  of  numerous 
excellent  contributions  to  the  Southern  Literary  Mess 
senger.  He  has  written  some  of  the  finest  poetry  of 
which  America  can  boast.  A  little  piece  of  his,  en 
titled  Florence  Vanet  and  contributed  to  the  Gentle* 
man's  Magazine  of  this  city,  during  our  editorship  of 
that  journal,  was  remarkable  for  the  high  ideality  it 
evinced  and  for  the  great  delicacy  and  melody  of  its 
rhythm.  It  was  universally  admired  and  copied,  as 
well  here  as  hi  England.  We  saw  it  not  long  ago,  as 
original,  in  Bentley's  Miscellany,  Mr.  Cooke  has,  we 
believe,  nearly  ready  for  press  a  novel  called  Maurice 
Werterbern,  whose  success  we  predict  with  confidence. 
His  MS.  is  clear,  forcible,  and  legible,  but  disfigured  by 
some  of  that  affectation  which  is  scarcely  a  blemish  in 
his  literary  style. 


Mr.  J.  Beauchamp  Jones  has  been,  we  believe, 
connected  for  many  years  past  with  the  lighter  litera 
ture  of  Baltimore,  and  at  present  edits  the  Baltimore 
Saturday  Visitor  with  much  judgment  and  general 
ability.  He  is  the  author  of  a  series  of  papers  of  high 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

merit  now  in  course  of  publication  in  the  Visitort  and 
entitled  Wild  Western  Scenes, 

His  MS.  is  distinct,  and  might  be  termed  a  fine  one ; 
but  is  somewhat  too  much  in  consonance  with  the 
ordinary  clerk  style  to  be  either  graceful  or  forcible. 


Mr.  Burton  is  better  known  as  a  comedian  than  as  a 
literary  man,  but  he  has  written  many  short  prose 
articles  of  merit,  and  his  quondam  editorship  of  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine  would,  at  all  events,  entitle  him 
to  a  place  in  this  collection.  He  has,  moreover,  pub 
lished  one  or  two  books.  An  annual  issued  by  Carey 
&  Hart  in  1840  consisted  entirely  of  prose  contribu 
tions  from  himself,  with  poetical  ones  from  Charles 
West  Thomson,  Esq.  In  this  work  many  of  the  tales 
were  good. 

Mr.  Burton's  MS.  is  scratchy  and  petitet  betokening 
indecision  and  care  or  caution. 


Richard   Henry  Wilde   of    Georgia    has    acquired 
much  reputation  as  a  poet,  and  especially  as  the 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

author  of  a  little  piece  entitled  My  Life  Is  Like  the  Sum* 
mer  Rosef  whose  claim  to  originality  has  been  made 
the  subject  of  repeated  and  reiterated  attack  and  de 
fence.  Upon  the  whole  it  is  hardly  worth  quarrelling 
about.  Far  better  verses  are  to  be  found  in  every 
second  newspaper  we  take  up.  Mr.  Wilde  has  also 
lately  published,  or  is  about  to  publish,  a  life  of  Tasso, 
for  which  he  has  been  long  collecting  material. 

His  MS.  has  all  the  peculiar  sprawling  and  elaborate 
tastelessness  of  Mr.  Palfrey's,  to  which  altogether  it 
bears  a  marked  resemblance.  The  love  of  effect,  how 
ever,  is  more  perceptible  in  Mr.  Wilde's  than  even  in 
Mr.  Palfrey's. 


Lewis  Cass,  the  ex-Secretary  of  War,  has  distin 
guished  himself  as  one  of  the  finest  belles-lettres 
scholars  of  America.  At  one  period  he  was  a  very  reg 
ular  contributor  to  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger. 
and  even  lately  he  has  furnished  that  journal  with  one 
or  two  very  excellent  papers. 

His  MS.  is  clear,  deliberate,  and  statesmanlike,  re 
sembling  that  of  Edward  Everett  very  closely.  It  is 
not  often  that  we  see  a  letter  written  altogether  by  him 
self.  He  generally  employs  an  amanuensis,  whose 
chirography  does  not  differ  materially  from  his  own, 
but  is  somewhat  more  regular. 

136 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


Mr.  James  Brooks  enjoys  rather  a  private  than  a 
public  literary  reputation;  but  his  talents  are  un 
questionably  great,  and  his  productions  have  been 
numerous  and  excellent.  As  the  author  of  many  of 
the  celebrated  "  Jack  Downing  "  letters,  and  as  the 
reputed  author  of  the  whole  of  them,  he  would  at  all 
events  be  entitled  to  a  place  among  our  literati 

His  chirography  is  simple,  clear,  and  legible,  with 
little  grace  and  less  boldness.  These  traits  are  pre 
cisely  those  of  his  literary  style. 


As  the  authorship  of  the  "  Jack  Downing  "  letters  is 
even  still  considered  by  many  a  moot  point  (although, 
in  fact,  there  should  be  no  question  about  it),  and  as 
we  have  already  given  the  signature  of  Mr.  Seba  Smith 
and  (just  above)  of  Mr.  Brooks,  we  now  present  our 
readers  with  a  facsimile  signature  of  the  "  veritable 
Jack  "  himself,  written  by  him  individually  in  our 
own  bodily  presence.  Here,  then,  is  an  opportunity 
of  comparison. 

The  chirography  of  the  "  veritable  Jack  "  is  a  very 
good,  honest,  sensible  hand,  and  not  very  dissimilar 
to  that  of  ex-President  Adams. 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


Mr.  J.  R.  Lowell,  of  Massachusetts,  is  entitled,  in 
our  opinion,  to  at  least  the  second  or  third  place  among 
the  poets  of  America.  We  say  this  on  account  of  the 
vigor  of  his  imagination,  a  faculty  to  be  first  considered 
in  all  criticism  upon  poetry.  In  this  respect  he  sur 
passes,  we  think,  any  of  our  writers  (at  least  any  of 
those  who  have  put  themselves  prominently  forth  as 
poets)  with  the  exception  of  Longfellow,  and  perhaps 
one  other.  His  ear  for  rhythm,  nevertheless,  is  imper 
fect,  and  he  is  very  far  from  possessing  the  artistic 
ability  of  either  Longfellow,  Bryant,  Halleck,  Sprague, 
or  Pierpont.  The  reader  desirous  of  properly  estimat 
ing  the  powers  of  Mr.  Lowell  will  find  a  very  beautiful 
little  poem  from  his  pen  in  the  October  number  of  this 
magazine.  There  is  one  also  (not  quite  so  fine)  in  the 
number  for  last  month.  He  will  contribute  regularly. 

His  MS.  is  strongly  indicative  of  the  vigor  and  pre 
cision  of  his  poetical  thought.  The  man  who  writes 
thus,  for  example,  will  never  be  guilty  of  metaphorical 
extravagance,  and  there  will  be  found  terseness  as  well 
as  strength  in  all  that  he  does. 


Mr.  L.  J.  Cist,  of  Cincinnati,  has  not  written  much 

138 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

prose,  and  is  known  especially  by  his  poetical  com 
positions,  many  of  which  have  been  very  popular,  al 
though  they  are  at  times  disfigured  by  false  metaphor, 
and  by  a  meretricious  straining  after  effect.  This  lat 
ter  foible  makes  itself  clearly  apparent  in  his  chirog- 
raphy,  which  abounds  in  ornamental  flourishes,  not  ill 
executed,  to  be  sure,  but  in  very  bad  taste. 


Mr.  Arthur  is  not  without  a  rich  talent  for  descrip 
tion  of  scenes  in  low  life,  but  is  uneducated  and  too 
fond  of  mere  vulgarities  to  please  a  refined  taste.  He 
has  published  The  Subordinate  and  Insubordination 
two  tales  distinguished  by  the  peculiarities  above  men 
tioned.  He  has  also  written  much  for  our  weekly 
papers  and  The  Lady's  Book. 

His  hand  is  a  commonplace  clerk's  hand,  such  as  we 
might  expect  him  to  write.  The  signature  is  much 
better  than  the  general  MS. 


Mr.  Heath  is  almost  the  only  person  of  any  literary 
distinction  residing  in  the  chief  city  of  the  Old  Do 
minion.  He  edited  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

in  the  five  or  six  first  months  of  its  existence;  and, 
since  the  secession  of  the  writer  of  this  article,  has  fre 
quently  aided  in  its  editorial  conduct.  He  is  the  author 
of  Edge'Hillt  a  well-written  novel,  which,  owing  to  the 
circumstances  of  its  publication,  did  not  meet  with  the 
reception  it  deserved.  His  writings  are  rather  polished 
and  graceful  than  forcible  or  original,  and  these  pe 
culiarities  can  be  traced  in  his  chirography. 


Dr.  Thomas  Holley  Chivers,  of  New  York,  is  at 
the  same  time  one  of  the  best  and  one  of  the  worst 
poets  in  America.  His  productions  affect  one  as  a 
wild  dream  —  strange,  incongruous,  full  of  images  of 
more  than  arabesque  monstrosity  and  snatches  of 
sweet,  unsustained  song.  Even  his  worst  nonsense  (and 
some  of  it  is  horrible)  has  an  indefinite  charm  of  sen 
timent  and  melody.  We  can  never  be  sure  that  there 
is  any  meaning  in  his  words,  neither  is  there  any  mean 
ing  in  many  of  our  finest  musical  airs,  but  the  effect  is 
very  similar  in  both.  His  figures  of  speech  are  meta 
phor  run  mad,  and  his  grammar  is  often  none  at  all. 
Yet  there  are  as  fine  individual  passages  to  be  found 
in  the  poems  of  Dr.  Chivers  as  in  those  of  any  poet 
whatsoever. 

His  MS.  resembles  that  of  P.  P.  Cooke  very  nearly, 
and  in  poetical  character  the  two  gentlemen  are  closely 

140 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

in  the  five  or  six  first  months  of  its  existence;  and, 
since  the  secession  of  the  writer  of  this  article,  has  fre 
quently  aided  in  its  editorial  conduct.  He  is  the  author 
of  Edge'Hillt  a.  well-written  novel,  which,  owing  to  the 
circumstances  of  its  publication,  did  not  meet  with  the 
reception  it  deserved.  His  writings  are  rather  polished 
and  graceful  than  forcible  or  original,  and  these  pe 
culiarities  can  be  traced  in  his  chirography. 


Dr.  ThomaHbaes^fc.  York,  is  at 
the  same  time  one  of  th^J^est  and  one  of  the  worst 
poets  in  America.  His  productions  affect  one  as  a 
wild  dream  —  *tr*aft,  tMjSjBjgruous,  full  of  images  of 
more  than  araWaqi*  SMMtrot&y  and  snatches  of 
sweet,  unsust»ia«4  song*  •»*»  fell  <wmt  *MWMe  i  and 
some  of  it  is  horrible)  fcp  4*  MMMfe  *fc*rm  if  sen 
timent  and  melody.  Wt  can  never  be  tore  that  there 
is  any  meaning  in  his  words,  neither  is  there  any  mean 
ing  in  many  of  our  finest  musical  airs,  but  the  effect  is 
very  similar  in  both.  His  figures  of  speech  are  meta 
phor  run  mad,  and  his  grammar  is  often  none  at  all. 
Yet  there  are  as  fine  individual  passages  to  be  found 
in  the  poems  of  Dr.  Olivers  as  in  those  of  any  poet 
whatsoever. 

His  MS.  resembles  that  of  P.  P.  Cooke  very  nearly, 
and  in  poetical  character  the  two  gentlemen  are  closely 
* 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

akin.     Mr.  Cooke  is,  by  much,  the  more  correct,  while 
Dr.  Chivers  is  sometimes  the  more  poetic. 
Mr.  C.  always  sustains  himself;  Dr.  C.  never. 


Judge  Story  and  his  various  literary  and  political 
labors  are  too  well  known  to  require  comment. 

His  chirography  is  a  noble  one — bold,  clear,  mas 
sive,  and  deliberate,  betokening  in  the  most  unequivo 
cal  manner  all  the  characteristics  of  his  intellect.  The 
plain,  unornamented  style  of  his  compositions  is  im 
pressed  with  accuracy  upon  his  handwriting,  the  whole 
air  of  which  is  well  conveyed  in  the  signature. 


Mr.  John  Frost,  Professor  of  Belles-Lettres  in  the 
High  School  of  Philadelphia,  and  at  present  editor  of 
The  Young  People's  Bookf  has  distinguished  himself 
by  numerous  literary  compositions  for  the  periodicals 
of  the  day,  and  by  a  great  number  of  published  works 
which  come  under  the  head  of  the  utile  rather  than 
that  of  the  dulcet  at  least  in  the  estimation  of  the 
young.  He  is  a  gentleman  of  fine  taste,  sound  scholar 
ship,  and  great  general  ability. 

His  chirography  denotes  his  mental  idiosyncrasy 
141 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

with  great  precision.  Its  careful  neatness,  legibility, 
and  finish  are  but  a  part  of  that  turn  of  mind  which 
leads  him  so  frequently  into  compilation.  The  signa 
ture  here  given  is  more  diminutive  than  usual. 


Mr.  J.  F.  Otis  is  well  known  as  a  writer  for  the 
magazines ;  and  has,  at  various  times,  been  connected 
with  many  of  the  leading  newspapers  of  the  day,  espe 
cially  with  those  in  New  York  and  Washington.  His 
prose  and  poetry  are  equally  good;  but  he  writes  too 
much  and  too  hurriedly  to  write  invariably  well.  His 
taste  is  fine,  and  his  judgment  in  literary  matters  is  to 
be  depended  upon  at  all  times  when  not  interfered  with 
by  his  personal  antipathies  or  predilections. 

His  chirography  is  exceedingly  illegible,  and,  like  his 
style,  has  every  possible  fault  except  that  of  the  com 
monplace. 


Mr.  Reynolds  occupied  at  one  time  a  distinguished 
position  in  the  eye  of  the  public,  on  account  of  his 
great  and  laudable  exertions  to  get  up  the  American 
South  Polar  expedition,  from  a  personal  participation 
in  which  he  was  most  shamefully  excluded.  He  has 

142 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

written  much  and  well.  Among  other  works,  the  pub 
lic  are  indebted  to  him  for  a  graphic  account  of  the 
noted  voyage  of  the  frigate  Potomac  to  Madagascar. 

His  MS.  is  an  ordinary  clerk's  hand,  giving  no  in 
dication  of  character. 


David  Paul  Brown  is  scarcely  more  distinguished 
in  his  legal  capacity  than  by  his  literary  compositions. 
As  a  dramatic  writer  he  has  met  with  much  success. 
His  Sertorius  has  been  particularly  well  received  both 
upon  the  stage  and  in  the  closet.  His  fugitive  produc 
tions,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  have  also  been  nu 
merous,  diversified,  and  excellent. 

His  chirography  has  no  doubt  been  strongly  modi 
fied  by  the  circumstances  of  his  position.  No  one  can 
expect  a  lawyer  in  full  practice  to  give  in  his  MS.  any 
true  indication  of  his  intellect  or  character. 


Mrs.  E.  Clementine  Stedman  has  lately  attracted 
much  attention  by  the  delicacy  and  grace  of  her  poeti 
cal  compositions,  as  well  as  by  the  piquancy  and  spirit 
of  her  prose.  For  some  months  past  we  have  been 
proud  to  rank  her  among  the  best  of  the  contributors  to 
Graham's  Magazine, 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

Her  chirography  differs  as  materially  from  that  of 
her  sex  in  general  as  does  her  literary  manner  from 
the  usual  namby-pamby  of  our  blue-stockings.  It  is 
indeed  a  beautiful  MS.,  very  closely  resembling  that  of 
Professor  Longfellow,  but  somewhat  more  diminutive 
and  far  more  full  of  grace. 


J.  Greenleaf  Whittier  is  placed  by  his  particular 
admirers  in  the  very  front  rank  of  American  poets. 
We  are  not  disposed,  however,  to  agree  with  their  de 
cision  in  every  respect.  Mr.  Whittier  is  a  fine  versifier, 
so  far  as  strength  is  regarded  independently  of  modu 
lation.  His  subjects,  too,  are  usually  chosen  with  the 
view  of  affording  scope  to  a  certain  vivida  vis  of  ex 
pression  which  seems  to  be  his  forte  ;  but  in  taste,  and 
especially  in  imagination,  which  Coleridge  has  justly 
styled  the  soul  of  all  poetry,  he  is  ever  remarkably 
deficient.  His  themes  are  never  to  our  liking. 

His  chirography  is  an  ordinary  clerk's  hand,  afford 
ing  little  indication  of  character. 


Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens  was  at  one  period  the  editor 
of  the  Portland  Magazinet  a  periodical  of  which  we 

144 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

have  not  heard  for  some  time,  and  which,  we  presume, 
has  been  discontinued.  More  lately  her  name  has  been 
placed  upon  the  title-page  of  the  Lady's  Companion 
of  New  York  as  one  of  the  conductors  of  that  journal, 
to  which  she  has  contributed  many  articles  of  merit  and 
popularity.  She  has  also  written  much  and  well  for 
various  other  periodicals,  and  will  hereafter  enrich 
this  magazine  with  her  compositions,  and  act  as  one 
of  its  editors. 

Her  MS.  is  a  very  excellent  one  and  differs  from  that 
of  her  sex  in  general  by  an  air  of  more  than  usual  force 
and  freedom. 


Note. — The    foregoing    Chapter  on  Autography,  as    will   be    seen    from   a 
reference  in  the  following  appendix,  originally  appeared  in  two  parts. — Ed. 


APPENDIX 

In  the  foregoing  facsimile  signatures  of  the  most 
distinguished  American  literati  our  design  was  to  fur 
nish  a  complete  series  of  autographs,  embracing  a 
specimen  of  the  MS.  of  each  of  the  most  noted  among 
our  living  male  and  female  writers.  For  obvious 
reasons,  we  made  no  attempt  at  classification  or  ar 
rangement,  either  in  reference  to  reputation  or  our 
own  private  opinion  of  merit.  Our  second  article  will 
be  found  to  contain  as  many  of  the  Dii  majorum 

VOL.  X.— JO.  ,|- 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

gentium  as  our  first;  and  this,  our  third  and  last,  as 
many  as  either,  although  fewer  names,  upon  the 
whole,  than  the  preceding  papers.  The  impossibility 
of  procuring  the  signatures  now  given,  at  a  period  suf 
ficiently  early  for  the  immense  edition  of  December, 
has  obliged  us  to  introduce  this  Appendix. 

It  is  with  great  pleasure  that  we  have  found  our 
anticipations  fulfilled  in  respect  to  the  popularity  of 
these  chapters, — our  individual  claim  to  merit  is  so 
trivial  that  we  may  be  permitted  to  say  so  much, — but 
we  confess  it  was  with  no  less  surprise  than  pleasure 
that  we  observed  so  little  discrepancy  of  opinion  mani 
fested  in  relation  to  the  hasty  critical,  or,  rather,  gos 
siping,  observations  which  accompanied  the  signatures. 
Where  the  subject  was  so  wide  and  so  necessarily  per 
sonal,  where  the  claims  of  more  than  one  hundred 
Utetati,  summarily  disposed  of,  were  turned  over  for 
readjudication  to  a  press  so  intricately  bound  up  in 
their  interests  as  is  ours,  it  is  really  surprising 
how  little  of  dissent  was  mingled  with  so  much  of 
general  comment.  The  fact,  however,  speaks  loudly 
to  one  point — to  the  unity  of  truth.  It  assures  us 
that  the  differences  which  exist  among  us  are  differ 
ences  not  of  real,  but  of  affected,  opinion,  and  that 
the  voice  of  him  who  maintains  fearlessly  what  he 
believes  honestly  is  pretty  sure  to  find  an  echo  (if 
the  speaking  be  not  mad)  in  the  vast  heart  of  the 
world  at  large. 

146 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


The  Writings  of  Charles  Sprague  were  first  col 
lected  and  published  about  nine  months  ago  by  Mr. 
Charles  S.  Francis  of  New  York.  At  the  time  of  the 
issue  of  the  book  we  expressed  our  opinion  frankly  in 
respect  to  the  general  merits  of  the  author,  an  opinion 
with  which  one  or  two  members  of  the  Boston  press 
did  not  see  fit  to  agree,  but  which,  as  yet,  we  have 
found  no  reason  for  modifying.  What  we  say  now  is, 
in  spirit,  merely  a  repetition  of  what  we  said  then. 
Mr.  Sprague  is  an  accomplished  belles-lettres  scholar, 
so  far  as  the  usual  ideas  of  scholarship  extend.  He  is 
a  very  correct  rhetorician  of  the  old  school.  His  versi 
fication  has  not  been  equalled  by  that  of  any  American 
— has  been  surpassed  by  no  one  living  or  dead.  In 
this  regard  there  are  to  be  found  finer  passages  in  his 
poems  than  any  elsewhere.  These  are  his  chief  merits. 
In  the  essentials  of  poetry  he  is  excelled  by  twenty  of 
our  countrymen  whom  we  could  name.  Except  in  a 
very  few  instances  he  gives  no  evidence  of  the  loftier 
ideality.  His  Winged  Worshippers  and  Lines  on  the 
Death  of  M,  S.  C,  are  beautiful  poems ;  but  he  has 
written  nothing  else  which  should  be  called  so.  His 
Shakespeare  Odef  upon  which  his  high  reputation 
mainly  depended,  is  quite  a  second-hand  affair,  with 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

no  merit  whatever  beyond  that  of  a  polished  and  vig 
orous  versification.  Its  imitation  of  Collins's  Ode  to 
the  Passions  is  obvious.  Its  allegorical  conduct  is 
mawkish,  passe,  and  absurd.  The  poem,  upon  the 
whole,  is  just  such  a  one  as  would  have  obtained  its 
author  an  Etonian  prize  some  forty  or  fifty  years  ago. 
It  is  an  exquisite  specimen  of  mannerism,  without 
meaning  and  without  merit ;  of  an  artificial,  but  most 
inartistical,  style  of  composition,  of  which  conven 
tionality  is  the  soul, — taste,  nature,  and  reason  the 
antipodes.  A  man  may  be  a  clever  financier  without 
being  a  genius. 

It  requires  but  little  effort  to  see  in  Mr.  Sprague's 
MS.  all  the  idiosyncrasy  of  his  intellect.  Here  are 
distinctness,  precision,  and  vigor,  but  vigor  employed 
upon  grace  rather  than  upon  its  legitimate  functions. 
The  signature  fully  indicates  the  general  hand,  in 
which  the  spirit  of  elegant  imitation  and  conversation 
may  be  seen  reflected  as  in  a  mirror. 


Mr.  Cornelius  Mathews  is  one  of  the  editors  of 
Arcturus,  a  monthly  journal  which  has  attained  much 
reputation  during  the  brief  period  of  its  existence.  He 
is  the  author  of  Puffer  Hopkins,  a  clever  satirical  tale 

148 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

somewhat  given  to  excess  in  caricature,  and  also  of  the 
well-written  retrospective  criticisms  which  appear  in 
his  magazine.  He  is  better  known,  however,  by  The 
Motley  Book,  published  some  years  ago,  a  work  which 
we  had  no  opportunity  of  reading.  He  is  a  gentleman 
of  taste  and  judgment  unquestionably. 

His  MS.  is  much  to  our  liking,  bold,  distinct,  and 
picturesque,  —  such  a  hand  as  no  one  destitute  of  talent 
indites.  The  signature  conveys  the  hand. 


Mr.  Charles  Fenno  Hoffman  is  the  author  of  A 
Winter  in  the  Westf  Greyslaert  and  other  productions 
of  merit.  At  one  time  he  edited,  with  much  ability,  the 
American  Monthly  Magazine  in  conjunction  with  Mr. 
Benjamin,  and  subsequently  with  Dr.  Bird.  He  is  a 
gentleman  of  talent. 

His  chirography  is  not  unlike  that  of  Mr.  Mathews. 
It  has  the  same  boldness,  strength,  and  picturesque- 
ness,  but  is  more  diffuse,  more  ornamented,  and  less 
legible.  Our  facsimile  is  from  a  somewhat  hurried  sig 
nature,  which  fails  in  giving  a  correct  idea  of  the 
general  hand. 


Mr.  Horace  Greeley,  present  editor  of  the  Ttibunet 
and  formerly  of  the  New  Yorkert  has  for  many  years 

149 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

been  remarked  as  one  of  the  most  able  and  honest  of 
American  editors.  He  has  written  much  and  invari 
ably  well.  His  political  knowledge  is  equal  to  that  of 
any  of  his  contemporaries,  his  general  information 
extensive.  As  a  belles-lettres  critic  he  is  entitled  to 
high  respect. 

His  manuscript  is  a  remarkable  one,  having  about  it 
a  peculiarity  which  we  know  not  how  better  to  desig 
nate  than  as  a  converse  of  the  picturesque.  His  char 
acters  are  scratchy  and  irregular,  ending  with  an  abrupt 
taper,  if  we  may  be  allowed  this  contradiction  in  terms, 
where  we  have  the  facsimile  to  prove  that  there  is  no 
contradiction  hi  fact.  All  abrupt  MSS.,  save  this,  have 
square  or  concise  terminations  of  the  letters.  The 
whole  chirography  puts  us  in  mind  of  a  jig.  We  can 
fancy  the  writer  jerking  up  his  hand  from  the  paper 
at  the  end  of  each  word,  and,  indeed,  of  each  letter. 
What  mental  idiosyncrasy  lies  perdu  beneath  all  this 
is  more  than  we  can  say,  but  we  will  venture  to  assert 
that  Mr.  Greeley  (whom  we  do  not  know  personally)  is, 
personally,  a  very  remarkable  man. 


The  name  of  Mr.  Prosper  M.  Wetmore  is  familiar 
to  all  readers  of  American  light  literature.  He  has 
written  a  great  deal,  at  various  periods,  both  in  prose 

150 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

and  poetry  (but  principally  in  the  latter)  for  our  papers, 
magazines,  and  annuals.  Of  late  days  we  have  seen 
but  little,  comparatively  speaking,  from  his  pen. 

His  MS.  is  not  unlike  that  of  Fitz-Greene  Halleck, 
but  is  by  no  means  so  good.  Its  clerky  flourishes  in 
dicate  a  love  of  the  beautiful  with  an  undue  straining 
for  effect,  qualities  which  are  distinctly  traceable  in 
his  poetic  efforts.  As  many  as  five  or  six  words  are 
occasionally  run  together;  and  no  man  who  writes 
thus  will  be  noted  for  finish  of  style.  Mr.  Wetmore  is 
sometimes  very  slovenly  in  his  best  compositions. 


Professor  Ware,  of  Harvard,  has  written  some  very 
excellent  poetry,  but  is  chiefly  known  by  his  Life  of 
the  Saviour,  Hints  on  Extemporaneous  Preaching,  and 
other  religious  works. 

His  MS.  is  fully  shown  in  the  signature.  It  evinces 
the  direct,  unpretending  strength  and  simplicity  which 
characterizes  the  man,  not  less  than  his  general  com 
positions. 


The  name  of  William  B.  0.  Peabody,  like  that  of 
Mr.  Wetmore,  is  known  chiefly  to  the  readers  of  our 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

light  literature,  and  much  more  familiarly  to  Northern 
than  to  Southern  readers.  He  is  a  resident  of  Spring 
field,  Mass.  His  occasional  poems  have  been  much 
admired. 

His  chirography  is  what  would  be  called  beautiful 
by  the  ladies  universally,  and,  perhaps,  by  a  large 
majority  of  the  bolder  sex.  Individually,  we  think  it 
a  miserable  one — too  careful,  undecided,  tapering,  and 
effeminate.  It  is  not  unlike  Mr.  Paulding's,  but  is 
more  regular  and  more  legible,  with  less  force.  We 
hold  it  as  undeniable  that  no  man  of  genius  ever  wrote 
such  a  hand. 


Epes  Sargent,  Esq.,  has  acquired  high  reputation  as 
the  author  of  Velasco,  a  tragedy  full  of  beauty  as  a 
poem,  but  not  adapted — perhaps  not  intended — for 
representation.  He  has  written,  besides,  many  very 
excellent  poems ;  The  Missing  Ship,  for  example,  pub 
lished  in  the  Knickerbocker,  the  Night  Storm  at  Sea, 
and,  especially,  a  fine  production  entitled  Shells  and 
Sea'Weeds,  One  or  two  theatrical  addresses  from 
his  pen  are  very  creditable  in  their  way,  but  the  way 
itself  is,  as  we  have  before  said,  execrable.  As  an 
editor,  Mr.  Sargent  has  also  distinguished  himself.  He 
is  a  gentleman  of  taste  and  high  talent. 

152 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

His  MS.  is  too  much  in  the  usual  clerk  style  to  be 
either  vigorous,  graceful,  or  easily  read.  It  resembles 
Mr.  Wetmore's,  but  has  somewhat  more  force.  The 
signature  is  better  than  the  general  hand,  but  conveys 
its  idea  very  well. 


The  name  of  Washington  Allston,  the  poet  and 
painter,  is  one  that  has  been  long  before  the  public. 
Of  his  paintings  we  have  here  nothing  to  say,  except 
briefly,  that  the  most  noted  of  them  are  not  to  our 
taste.  His  poems  are  not  all  of  a  high  order  of  merit ; 
and,  in  truth,  the  faults  of  his  pencil  and  of  his  pen  are 
identical.  Yet  every  reader  will  remember  his  Span* 
ish  Maid  with  pleasure;  and  the  Address  to  Great 
Britain,  first  published  in  Coleridge's  Sibylline  Leaves, 
and  attributed  to  an  English  author,  is  a  production  of 
which  Mr.  Allston  may  be  proud. 

His  MS.,  notwithstanding  an  exceedingly  simple  and 
boyish  air,  is  one  which  we  particularly  admire.  It  is 
forcible,  picturesque,  and  legible,  without  ornament  of 
any  description.  Each  letter  is  formed  with  a  thor 
ough  distinctness  and  individuality.  Such  a  MS.  in 
dicates  caution  and  precision,  most  unquestionably; 
but  we  say  of  it,  as  we  say  of  Mr.  Peabody's  (a  very 
different  MS.),  that  no  man  of  original  genius  ever  did 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

or  could  habitually  indite  it  under  any  circumstances 
whatever.  The  signature  conveys  the  general  hand 
with  accuracy. 


Mr.  Alfred  B.  Street  has  been  long  before  the  public 
as  a  poet.  At  as  early  an  age  as  fifteen,  some  of  his 
pieces  were  published  by  Bryant  in  the  Evening  Post  / 
among  these  was  one  of  much  merit,  entitled  a  Winter 
Scene.  In  the  New  "York  Book,  and  in  the  collections 
of  American  poetry  by  Messieurs  Keese  and  Bryant, 
will  be  found  many  excellent  specimens  of  his  maturer 
powers.  The  Willewemockf  The  Forest  Tree,  The 
Indian's  Vigil,  The  Lost  Hunter,  and  White  Lake  we 
prefer  to  any  of  his  other  productions  which  have  met 
our  eye.  Mr.  Street  has  fine  taste  and  a  keen  sense 
of  the  beautiful.  He  writes  carefully,  elaborately,  and 
correctly.  He  has  made  Mr.  Bryant  his  model,  and 
in  all  Mr.  Bryant's  good  points  would  be  nearly  his 
equal,  were  it  not  for  the  sad  and  too  perceptible  stain 
of  the  imitation.  That  he  has  imitated  at  all  —  or 
rather  that,  in  mature  age,  he  has  persevered  in  his 
imitations  —  is  sufficient  warranty  for  placing  him 
among  the  men  of  talent  rather  than  among  the  men 
of  genius. 

His  MS.  is  full  corroboration  of  this  warranty.    It 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

is  a  very  pretty  chirography,  graceful,  legible,  and  neat. 
By  most  persons  it  would  be  called  beautiful.  The 
fact  is,  it  is  without  fault,  but  its  merits,  like  those 
of  his  poems,  are  chiefly  negative. 


Mr.  Richard  Penn  Smith,  although  perhaps  better 
known  in  Philadelphia  than  elsewhere,  has  acquired 
much  literary  reputation.  His  chief  works  are  The 
Forsaken,  a  novel;  a  pseudo-autobiography  called 
Colonel  Crockett's  Tour  in  Texas,  the  tragedy  of  Caius 
Marias,  and  two  domestic  dramas  entitled  The  Dis* 
owned  and  The  Deformed,  He  has  also  published  two 
volumes  of  miscellanies  under  the  titles  of  The  Actress 
of  Padua  and  Other  Tales,  besides  occasional  poetry. 
We  are  not  sufficiently  cognizant  of  any  of  these  works 
to  speak  with  decision  respecting  their  merits.  In  a 
biography  of  Mr.  Smith,  however,  very  well  written,  by 
his  friend,  Mr.  McMichael,  of  this  city,  we  are  informed, 
of  The  Forsaken,  that  "  a  large  edition  of  it  was  speed 
ily  exhausted  " ;  of  The  Actress  of  Padua,  that  it  "  had 
an  extensive  sale  and  was  much  commended  " ;  of  the 
Tour  of  Texas,  that  "  few  books  attained  an  equal 
popularity  " ;  of  Caius  Marius,  that  "  it  has  great 
capabilities  for  an  acting  play  " ;  of  The  Disowned  and 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

The  Deformed  that  they  "  were  performed  at  the 
London  theatres,  where  they  both  made  a  favorable 
impression  " ;  and  of  his  poetry  in  general,  "  that  it 
will  be  found  superior  to  the  average  quality  of  that 
commodity."  "  It  is  by  his  dramatic  efforts,"  says  the 
biographer,  "  that  his  merits  as  a  poet  must  be  deter 
mined,  and  judged  by  these  he  will  be  assigned  a  place 
in  the  foremost  rank  of  American  writers."  We  have 
only  to  add  that  we  have  the  highest  respect  for  the 
judgment  of  Mr.  McMichael. 

Mr.  Smith's  MS.  is  clear,  graceful,  and  legible,  and 
would  generally  be  called  a  fine  hand,  but  is  somewhat 
too  clerky  for  our  taste. 


Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  of  Boston,  late  Pro 
fessor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  at  Dartmouth  Col 
lege,  has  written  many  productions  of  merit  and  has 
been  pronounced  by  a  very  high  authority  the  best  of 
the  humorous  poets  of  the  day. 

His  chirography  is  remarkably  fine,  and  a  quick 
fancy  might  easily  detect,  in  its  graceful  yet  pictur 
esque  quaintness,  an  analogy  with  the  vivid  drollery 
of  his  style.  The  signature  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
general  MS. 

156 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


Bishop  Doane,  of  New  Jersey,  is  somewhat  more 
extensively  known  in  his  clerical  than  in  a  literary 
capacity,  but  has  accomplished  much  more  than  suffi 
cient  in  the  world  of  books  to  entitle  him  to  a  place 
among  the  most  noted  of  our  living  men  of  letters. 
The  compositions  by  which  he  is  best  known  were  pub 
lished,  we  believe,  during  his  professorship  of  Rhetoric 
and  Belles-Lettres  in  Washington  College,  Hartford. 

His  MS.  has  some  resemblance  to  that  of  Mr.  Greeley 
of  the  Tribune,  The  signature  is  far  bolder  and  alto 
gether  better  than  the  general  hand. 


We  believe  that  Mr.  Albert  Pike  has  never  pub 
lished  his  poems  in  book  form;  nor  has  he  written 
anything  since  1834.  His  Hymns  fo  the  Gods  and 
Ode  to  the  Mocking  Bird,  being  printed  in  Blackwood, 
are  the  chief  basis  of  his  reputation.  His  lines  To 
Spring  are,  however,  much  better  in  every  respect,  and 
a  little  poem  from  his  pen,  entitled  Ariel,  originally 
published  in  the  Boston  Pearl,  is  one  of  the  finest  of 
American  compositions.  Mr.  Pike  has  unquestionably 
merit,  and  that  of  a  high  order.  His  ideality  is  rich 
and  well  disciplined.  He  is  the  most  classic  of  our 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

poets  in  the  best  sense  of  the  term,  and,  of  course,  his 
classicism  is  very  different  from  that  of  Mr.  Sprague, 
to  whom,  nevertheless,  he  bears  much  resemblance  in 
other  respects.  Upon  the  whole,  there  are  few  of  our 
native  writers  to  whom  we  consider  him  inferior. 

His  MS.  shows  clearly  the  spirit  of  his  intellect.  We 
observe  in  it  a  keen  sense  not  only  of  the  beautiful 
and  graceful,  but  of  the  picturesque  —  neatness,  pre 
cision,  and  general  finish,  verging  upon  effeminacy. 
In  force  it  is  deficient.  The  signature  fails  to  convey 
the  entire  MS.,  which  depends  upon  masses  for  its 
peculiar  character. 


^^ 


Dr.  James  McHenry,  of  Philadelphia,  is  well  known 
to  the  literary  world  as  the  writer  of  numerous  articles 
in  our  reviews  and  lighter  journals,  but  more  espe 
cially  as  the  author  of  The  Antediluvians,  an  epic  poem 
which  has  been  the  victim  of  a  most  shameful  cabal 
in  this  country  and  the  subject  of  a  very  disgraceful 
pasquinade  on  the  part  of  Professor  Wilson.  What 
ever  may  be  the  demerits,  in  some  regard,  of  this  poem, 
there  can  be  no  question  of  the  utter  want  of  fairness, 
and  even  of  common  decency,  which  distinguished  the 
philippic  in  question.  The  writer  of  a  just  review  of 

158 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

The  Antediluvians  —  the  only  tolerable  American  epic 
—  would  render  an  important  service  to  the  literature 
of  his  country. 

Dr.  McHenry's  MS.  is  distinct,  bold,  and  simple, 
without  ornament  or  superfluity.  The  signature  well 
conveys  the  idea  of  the  general  hand. 


MUL, 


Mrs.  R.  S.  Nichols  has  acquired  much  reputation 
of  late  years  by  frequent  and  excellent  contributions 
to  the  magazines  and  annuals.  Many  of  her  com 
positions  will  be  found  in  our  pages. 

Her  MS.  is  fair,  neat,  and  legible,  but  formed  some 
what  too  much  upon  the  ordinary  boarding-school 
model  to  afford  any  indication  of  character.  The  sig 
nature  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  hand. 


Mr.  Richard  Adams  Locke  is  one  among  the  few 
men  of  unquestionable  genius  whom  the  country  pos 
sesses.  Of  the  "  Moon  Hoax  "  it  is  supererogatory  to 
say  one  word  —  not  to  know  that  argues  one's  self  un 
known.  Its  rich  imagination  will  long  dwell  in  the 
memory  of  every  one  who  reads  it,  and  surely  if 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

the  worth  of  anything 
Is  just  so  much  as  it  will  bring  — 

if,  in  short,  we  are  to  judge  of  the  value  of  a  literary 
composition  in  any  degree  by  its  effect  —  then  was  the 
"  Hoax  "  most  precious. 

But  Mr.  Locke  is  also  a  poet  of  high  order.  We 
have  seen  —  nay,  more,  we  have  heard  him  read  — 
verses  of  his  own  which  would  make  the  fortune  of 
two  thirds  of  our  poetasters  ;  and  he  is  yet  so  modest 
as  never  to  have  published  a  volume  of  poems.  As 
an  editor,  as  a  political  writer,  as  a  writer  in  general, 
we  think  that  he  has  scarcely  a  superior  in  America. 
There  is  no  man  among  us  to  whose  sleeve  we  would 
rather  pin,  not  our  faith  (of  that  we  say  nothing),  but 
our  judgment. 

His  MS.  is  clear,  bold,  and  forcible,  somewhat  modi 
fied,  no  doubt,  by  the  circumstance  of  his  editorial 
position  but  still  sufficiently  indicative  of  his  fine  in 
tellect. 


Mr.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  belongs  to  a  class  of 
gentlemen  with  whom  we  have  no  patience  whatever 
—  the  mystics  for  mysticism's  sake.  Quintilian  men 
tions  a  pedant  who  taught  obscurity,  and  who  once 
said  to  a  pupil,  "  This  is  excellent,  for  I  do  not  under 

go 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 


the  worth  of 
Is  just  so  much  as  it  will  bring  — 

if,  in  short,  we  are  to  judge  of  the  value  of  a  literary 
composition  in  any  degree  by  its  effect  —  then  was  the 
"  Hoax  "  most  precious. 

But  Mr.  Locke  is  also  a  poet  of  high  order.  We 
have  seen  —  nay,  more,  we  have  heard  him  read  — 
verses  of  his  own  which  would  make  the  fortune  of 
two  thirds  of  our  poetasters  ;  and  he  is  yet  so  modest 
as  never  to  have  published  a  volume  of  poems.  As 
an  editor,  as  a  political  writer,  as  a  writer  in  general, 
e  think  thata*  *  *  America. 


rather  pin,  not 


our  judgment. 

His  MS.  to 
fied,  no  dm 
position  but 
teilect 


say  nothing),  but 


fe 


is  fine  in* 


Mr.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  belongs  to  a  class  of 
gentlemen  with  whom  we  have  no  patience  whatever 
—the  mystics  for  mysticism's  sake.  Quintilian  men 
tions  a  pedant  who  taught  obscurity,  and  who  once 
said  to  a  pupil,  "  This  is  excellent,  for  I  do  not  under- 

160 


A  Chapter  on  Autography 

stand  it  myself."  How  the  good  man  would  have 
chuckled  over  Mr.  E.!  His  present  role  seems  to  be 
the  out-Carlyling  Carlyle.  Lycophron  Tenebrosus  is  a 
fool  to  him.  The  best  answer  to  his  twaddle  is  cui 
bono  / — a  very  little  Latin  phrase  very  generally  mis 
translated  and  misunderstood — cm  bono  / — to  whom 
is  it  a  benefit  ?  If  not  to  Mr.  Emerson  individually, 
then  surely  to  no  man  living. 

His  love  of  the  obscure  does  not  prevent  him,  never 
theless,  from  the  composition  of  occasional  poems  in 
which  beauty  is  apparent  by  flashes.  Several  of  his 
effusions  appeared  in  the  Western  Messenger  /  more 
in  the  Dial,  of  which  he  is  the  soul,  or  the  sun,  or  the 
shadow.  We  remember  The  Sphynx,  The  Problem, 
The  Snow  Stormf  and  some  fine  old-fashioned  verses, 
entitled  O  Fair  and  Stately  Maid  Whose  Eye, 

His  MS.  is  bad,  sprawling,  illegible,  and  irregular, 
although  sufficiently  bold.  This  latter  trait  may  be, 
and  no  doubt  is,  only  a  portion  of  his  general  affecta 
tion. 


VOL.  X.— II. 


Anastatic  Printing 

T  is  admitted  by  every  one  that  of  late  there 
has  been  a  rather  singular  invention,  called 
Anastatic  Printing,  and  that  this  invention 
may  possibly  lead,  in  the  course  of  time,  to  some 
rather  remarkable  results,  among  which  the  one  chiefly 
insisted  upon  is  the  abolition  of  the  ordinary  stereotyping 
process ;  but  this  seems  to  be  the  amount,  in  America 
at  least,  of  distinct  understanding  on  this  subject. 

"  There  is  no  exquisite  beauty,"  says  Bacon,  "  with 
out  some  strangeness  in  the  proportions."  The  phi 
losopher  had  reference,  here,  to  beauty  in  its  common 
acceptation,  but  the  remark  is  equally  applicable  to 
all  the  forms  of  beauty,  that  is  to  say,  to  everything 
which  arouses  profound  interest  in  the  heart  or  intel 
lect  of  man.  In  every  such  thing,  strangeness — in 
other  words,  novelty — will  be  found  a  principal  ele 
ment;  and  so  universal  is  this  law  that  it  has  no 
exception  even  in  the  case  of  this  principal  element 
itself.  Nothing  unless  it  be  novel,  not  even  novelty 

162 


Anastatic  Printing 

itself,  will  be  the  source  of  very  intense  excitement 
among  men.  Thus  the  eanaye  who  travels  in  the  hope 
of  dissipating  his  ennui  by  the  perpetual  succession  of 
novelties  will  invariably  be  disappointed  in  the  end. 
He  receives  the  impression  of  novelty  so  continuously 
that  it  is  at  length  no  novelty  to  receive  it.  And  the 
man,  in  general,  of  the  nineteenth  century — more  espe 
cially  of  our  own  particular  epoch  of  it — is  very  much 
in  the  predicament  of  the  traveller  in  question.  We 
are  so  habituated  to  new  inventions  that  we  no  longer 
get  from  newness  the  vivid  interest  which  should  ap 
pertain  to  the  new,  and  no  example  could  be  adduced 
more  distinctly  showing  that  the  mere  importance  of 
a  novelty  will  not  suffice  to  gain  for  it  universal  atten 
tion  than  we  find  in  the  invention  of  anastatic  print 
ing.  It  excites  not  one  fiftieth  part  of  the  comment 
which  was  excited  by  the  comparatively  frivolous  in 
vention  of  Sennef elder;  but  he  lived  in  the  good  old 
days  when  a  novelty  was  novel.  Nevertheless,  while 
lithography  opened  the  way  for  a  very  agreeable  pas 
time,  it  is  the  province  of  anastatic  printing  to  revolu 
tionize  the  world. 

By  means  of  this  discovery  anything  written,  drawn, 
or  printed  can  be  made  to  stereotype  itself,  with  abso 
lute  accuracy,  in  five  minutes. 

Let  us  take,  for  example,  a  page  of  this  Journal, 
supposing  only  one  side  of  the  leaf  to  have  printing  on 
it.  We  damp  the  leaf  with  a  certain  acid,  diluted,  and 

163 


Anastatic  Printing 

then  place  it  between  two  leaves  of  blotting-paper  to 
absorb  superfluous  moisture.  We  then  place  the 
printed  side  in  contact  with  a  zinc  plate  that  lies  on 
the  table.  The  acid  in  the  interspaces  between  the 
letters  immediately  corrodes  the  zinc,  but  the  acid  on 
the  letters  themselves  has  no  such  effect,  having  been 
neutralized  by  the  ink.  Removing  the  leaf  at  the  end 
of  five  minutes  we  find  a  reversed  copy,  in  slight  relief, 
of  the  printing  on  the  page, — in  other  words,  we  have 
a  stereotype-plate,  from  which  we  can  print  avast 
number  of  absolute  facsimiles  of  the  original  printed 
page,  which  latter  has  not  been  at  all  injured  in  the 
process;  that  is  to  say,  we  can  still  produce  from  it  (or 
from  any  impression  of  the  stereotype-plate)  new 
stereotype-plates  ad  libitum,  Any  engraving,  or  any 
pen-and-ink  drawing,  or  any  MS.  can  be  stereotyped  in 
precisely  the  same  manner. 

The  facts  of  the  invention  are  established.  The 
process  is  in  successful  operation  both  in  London  and 
Paris.  We  have  seen  several  specimens  of  printing 
done  from  the  plates  described,  and  have  now  lying 
before  us  a  leaf  (from  the  London  Art-Union)  covered 
with  drawing,  MS.,  letterpress,  and  impressions  from 
woodcuts,  —  the  whole  printed  from  the  anastatic 
stereotypes,  and  warranted  by  the  Art-Union  to  be 
absolute  facsimiles  of  the  originals. 

The  process  can  scarcely  be  regarded  as  a  new  in 
vention,  and  appears  to  be  rather  the  modification  and 

164 


Anastatic  Printing 

successful  application  of  two  or  three  previously  ascer 
tained  principles — those  of  etching,  electrography, 
lithography,  etc.  It  follows  from  this  that  there  will 
be  much  difficulty  in  establishing  or  maintaining  a 
right  of  patent,  and  the  probability  is  that  the  benefits 
of  the  process  will  soon  be  thrown  open  to  the  world. 
As  to  the  secret,  it  can  only  be  a  secret  in  name. 

That  the  discovery  (if  we  may  so  call  it)  has  been 
made,  can  excite  no  surprise  in  any  thinking  person; 
the  only  matter  for  surprise  is  that  it  has  not  been 
made  many  years  ago.  The  obviousness  of  the  pro 
cess,  however,  in  no  degree  lessens  its  importance. 
Indeed,  its  inevitable  results  enkindle  the  imagination 
and  embarrass  the  understanding. 

Every  one  will  perceive  at  once  that  the  ordinary 
process  of  stereotyping  will  be  abolished.  Through 
this  ordinary  process  a  publisher,  to  be  sure,  is  en 
abled  to  keep  on  hand  the  means  of  producing  edition 
after  edition  of  any  work  the  certainty  of  whose  sale 
will  justify  the  cost  of  stereotyping,  which  is  trifling 
in  comparison  with  that  of  resetting  the  matter.  But 
still,  positively,  this  cost  (of  stereotyping)  is  great. 
Moreover,  there  cannot  always  be  certainty  about 
sales.  Publishers  frequently  are  forced  to  reset  works 
which  they  have  neglected  to  stereotype,  thinking 
them  unworthy  the  expense ;  and  many  excellent  works 
are  not  published  at  all,  because  small  editions  do  not 
pay,  and  the  anticipated  sales  will  not  warrant  the  cost 

165 


Anastatic  Printing 

of  stereotype.  Some  of  these  difficulties  will  be  at 
once  remedied  by  the  anastatic  printing,  and  all  will 
be  remedied  in  a  brief  time.  A  publisher  has  only  to 
print  as  many  copies  as  are  immediately  demanded. 
He  need  print  no  more  than  a  dozen,  indeed,  unless  he 
feels  perfectly  confident  of  success.  Preserving  one 
copy,  he  can  from  this,  at  no  other  cost  than  that  of 
the  zinc,  produce  with  any  desirable  rapidity  as  many 
impressions  as  he  may  think  proper.  Some  idea  of  the 
advantages  thus  accruing  may  be  gleaned  from  the 
fact  that  in  several  of  the  London  publishing  ware 
houses  there  is  deposited  in  stereotype-plates  alone 
property  to  the  amount  of  a  million  sterling. 

The  next  view  of  the  case,  in  point  of  obviousness, 
is,  that  if  necessary  a  hundred  thousand  impressions 
per  hour,  or  even  infinitely  more,  can  be  taken  of  any 
newspaper  or  similar  publication.  As  many  presses 
can  be  put  in  operation  as  the  occasion  may  require, 
indeed,  there  can  be  no  limit  to  the  number  of  copies 
producible,  provided  we  have  no  limit  to  the  number 
of  presses. 

The  tendency  of  all  this  to  cheapen  information,  to 
diffuse  knowledge  and  amusement,  and  to  bring  before 
the  public  the  very  class  of  works  which  are  most  valu 
able,  but  least  in  circulation  on  account  of  unsalability, 
is  what  need  scarcely  be  suggested  to  any  one.  But 
benefits  such  as  these  are  merely  the  immediate  and 
most  obvious — by  no  means  the  most  important. 

166 


Anastatic  Printing 

For  some  years,  perhaps,  the  strong  spirit  of  conven 
tionality,  of  conservation,  will  induce  authors  in  gen 
eral  to  have  recourse,  as  usual,  to  the  setting  of  type. 
A  printed  book  now  is  more  sightly  and  more  legible 
than  any  MS.,  and  for  some  years  the  idea  will  not  be 
overthrown  that  this  state  of  things  is  one  of  necessity. 
But  by  degrees  it  will  be  remembered  that,  while  MS. 
was  a  necessity,  men  wrote  after  such  fashion  that  no 
books  printed  in  modern  times  have  surpassed  their 
MSS.  either  in  accuracy  or  in  beauty.  This  considera 
tion  will  lead  to  the  cultivation  of  a  neat  and  distinct 
style  of  handwriting,  for  authors  will  perceive  the 
immense  advantage  of  giving  their  own  MSS.  directly 
to  the  public  without  the  expensive  interference  of  the 
typesetter,  and  the  often  ruinous  intervention  of  the 
publisher.  All  that  a  man  of  letters  need  do  will  be 
to  pay  some  attention  to  legibility  of  MS.,  arrange  his 
pages  to  suit  himself,  and  stereotype  them  instan 
taneously  as  arranged.  He  may  intersperse  them  with 
his  own  drawings,  or  with  anything  to  please  his  own 
fancy,  in  the  certainty  of  being  fairly  brought  before 
his  readers  with  all  the  freshness  of  his  original  con 
ception  about  him. 

And  at  this  point  we  are  arrested  by  a  consideration 
of  infinite  moment,  although  of  a  seemingly  shadowy 
character.  The  cultivation  of  accuracy  in  MS.  thus 
enforced  will  tend,  with  an  inevitable  impetus,  to  every 
species  of  improvement  in  style,  more  especially  in  the 

167 


Anastatic  Printing 

points  of  concision  and  distinctness ;  and  this,  again,  in 
a  degree  even  more  noticeable,  to  precision  of  thought 
and  luminous  arrangement  of  matter.  There  is  a  very 
peculiar  and  easily  intelligible  reciprocal  influence  be 
tween  the  thing  written  and  the  manner  of  writing, 
but  the  latter  has  the  predominant  influence  of  the 
two.  The  more  remote  effect  on  philosophy  at  large, 
which  will  inevitably  result  from  improvement  of  style 
and  thought  in  the  points  of  concision,  distinctness, 
and  accuracy,  need  only  be  suggested  to  be  conceived. 

As  a  consequence  of  attention  being  directed  to  neat 
ness  and  beauty  of  MS.,  the  antique  profession  of  the 
scribe  will  be  revived,  affording  abundant  employment 
to  women,  their  delicacy  of  organization  fitting  them 
peculiarly  for  such  tasks.  The  female  amanuensis, 
indeed,  will  occupy  very  nearly  the  position  of  the 
present  male  typesetter,  whose  industry  will  be  di 
verted  perforce  into  other  channels. 

These  considerations  are  of  vital  importance,  but 
there  is  yet  one  beyond  them  all.  The  value  of  every 
book  is  a  compound  of  its  literary  value  and  its  physi 
cal  or  mechanical  value,  as  the  product  of  physical 
labor  applied  to  the  physical  material.  But  at  present 
the  latter  value  immensely  predominates  even  in  the 
works  of  the  most  esteemed  authors.  It  will  be  seen, 
however,  that  the  new  condition  of  things  will  at  once 
give  the  ascendency  to  the  literary  values,  and  thus,  by 
their  literary  values,  will  books  come  to  be  estimated 

168 


Anastatic  Printing 

among  men.  The  wealthy  gentleman  of  "  elegant 
leisure  "  will  lose  the  vantage-ground  now  afforded 
him,  and  will  be  forced  to  tilt  on  terms  of  equality  with 
the  poor-devil  author.  At  present  the  literary  world 
is  a  species  of  anomalous  congress,  in  which  the  ma 
jority  of  the  members  are  constrained  to  listen  in  silence 
while  all  the  eloquence  proceeds  from  a  privileged  few. 
In  the  new  regime  the  humblest  will  speak  as  often 
and  as  freely  as  the  most  exalted,  and  will  be  sure  of 
receiving  just  that  amount  of  attention  which  the  in 
trinsic  merit  of  their  speeches  may  deserve. 

From  what  we  have  said  it  will  be  evident  that  the 
discovery  of  anastatic  printing  will  not  only  not  ob 
viate  the  necessity  of  copyright  laws,  and  of  an  inter 
national  law  in  especial,  but  will  render  this  necessity 
more  imperative  and  more  apparent.  It  has  been 
shown  that  in  depressing  the  value  of  the  physique  of 
a  book  the  invention  will  proportionately  elevate  the 
value  of  its  morale,  and  since  it  is  the  latter  value  alone 
which  the  copyright  laws  are  needed  to  protect,  the 
necessity  of  the  protection  will  be  only  the  more  ur 
gent  and  more  obvious  than  ever. 


169 


Eureka 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  MATERIAL  AND  SPIRITUAL 
UNIVERSE 

To  the  few  who  love  me  and  whom  I  love,  to  those  who 
feel  rather  than  to  those  who  think,  to  the  dreamers  and  those 
who  put  faith  in  dreams  as  in  the  only  realities,  I  offer  this 
book  of  truths,  not  in  its  character  of  truth-teller,  but  for 
the  beauty  that  abounds  in  its  truth,  constituting  it  true. 
To  these  I  present  the  composition  as  an  art-product  alone — 
let  us  say  as  a  romance ;  or,  if  I  be  not  urging  too  lofty  a 
claim,  as  a  poem. 

What  I  here  propound  is  true : — therefore  it  cannot  die ;  or, 
if  by  any  means  it  be  now  trodden  down  so  that  it  die,  it  will 
"  rise  again  to  the  Life  Everlasting." 

Nevertheless  it  is  as  a  poem  only  that  I  wish  this  work  to  be 
judged  after  I  am  dead. 


T  is  with  humility  really  unassumed, — it  is 
with  a  sentiment  even  of  awe, — that  I  pen 
the  opening  sentence  of  this  work;  for  of 
all  conceivable  subjects  I  approach  the  reader  with 
the  most  solemn,  the  most  comprehensive,  the  most 
difficult,  the  most  august. 

170 


Eureka 

What  terms  shall  I  find  sufficiently  simple  in  their 
sublimity,  sufficiently  sublime  in  their  simplicity,  for 
the  mere  enunciation  of  my  theme  ? 

I  design  to  speak  of  the  physical,  metaphysical,  and 
mathematical — of  the  material  and  spiritual  universe — 
of  its  essence,  its  origin,  its  creation,  its  present  con 
dition,  and  its  destiny.  I  shall  be  so  rash,  moreover, 
as  to  challenge  the  conclusions,  and  thus,  in  effect,  to 
question  the  sagacity,  of  many  of  the  greatest  and 
most  justly  reverenced  of  men. 

In  the  beginning,  let  me  as  distinctly  as  possible 
announce,  not  the  theorem  which  I  hope  to  demon 
strate — for,  whatever  the  mathematicians  may  assert, 
there  is,  in  this  world  at  least,  no  such  thing  as  demon 
stration — but  the  ruling  idea  which,  throughout  this 
volume,  I  shall  be  continually  endeavoring  to  suggest. 

My  general  proposition,  then,  is  this:  In  the  orig 
inal  unity  of  the  first  thing  lies  the  secondary  cause 
of  all  things,  with  the  germ  of  their  inevitable  anni 
hilation. 

In  illustration  of  this  idea  I  propose  to  take  such  a 
survey  of  the  universe  that  the  mind  may  be  able 
really  to  receive  and  to  perceive  an  individual  impres 
sion. 

He  who  from  the  top  of  ^Etna  casts  his  eyes  leisurely 
around,  is  affected  chiefly  by  the  extent  and  diversity 
of  the  scene.  Only  by  a  rapid  whirling  on  his  heel 
could  he  hope  to  comprehend  the  panorama  in  the 

171 


Eureka 

sublimity  of  its  oneness.  But  as,  on  the  summit  of 
^Etna,  no  man  has  thought  of  whirling  on  his  heel,  so 
no  man  has  ever  taken  into  his  brain  the  full  unique 
ness  of  the  prospect;  and  so,  again,  whatever  consid 
erations  lie  involved  in  this  uniqueness  have  as  yet 
no  practical  existence  for  mankind. 

I  do  not  know  a  treatise  in  which  a  survey  of  the 
universe,  using  the  word  in  its  most  comprehensive 
and  only  legitimate  acceptation,  is  taken  at  all;  and 
it  may  be  as  well  here  to  mention  that  by  the  term 
"  universe,"  wherever  employed  without  qualification 
in  this  essay,  I  mean  to  designate  the  utmost  conceiv 
able  expanse  of  space,  with  all  things,  spiritual  and 
material,  that  can  be  imagined  to  exist  within  the  com 
pass  of  that  expanse.  In  speaking  of  what  is  ordi 
narily  implied  by  the  expression,  "  universe,"  I  shall 
take  a  phrase  of  limitation — "  the  universe  of  stars." 
Why  this  distinction  is  considered  necessary  will  be 
seen  in  the  sequel. 

But  even  of  treatises  on  the  really  limited,  although 
always  assumed  as  the  unlimited,  universe  of  stars,  I 
I  know  none  in  which  a  survey,  even  of  this  limited 
universe,  is  so  taken  as  to  warrant  deductions  from 
its  individuality.  The  nearest  approach  to  such  a  work 
is  made  in  the  Cosmos  of  Alexander  von  Humboldt. 
He  presents  the  subject,  however,  not  in  its  individu 
ality  but  in  its  generality.  His  theme,  in  its  last  result, 
is  the  law  of  each  portion  of  the  merely  physical  uni- 

172 


Eureka 

verse,  as  this  law  is  related  to  the  laws  of  every  other 
portion  of  this  merely  physical  universe.  His  design 
is  simply  synoeretical.  In  a  word,  he  discusses  the 
universality  of  material  relation,  and  discloses  to  the 
eye  of  philosophy  whatever  inferences  have  hitherto 
lain  hidden  behind  this  universality.  But,  however 
admirable  be  the  succinctness  with  which  he  has 
treated  each  particular  point  of  his  topic,  the  mere 
multiplicity  of  these  points  occasions,  necessarily,  an 
amount  of  detail,  and  thus  an  involution  of  idea,  which 
preclude  all  individuality  of  impression. 

It  seems  to  me  that,  in  aiming  at  this  latter  effect, 
and,  through  it,  at  the  consequences, — the  conclusions, 
the  suggestions,  the  speculations,  or,  if  nothing  better 
offer  itself,  the  mere  guesses  which  may  result  from  it, 
we  require  something  like  a  mental  gyration  on  the 
heel.  We  need  so  rapid  a  revolution  of  all  things  about 
the  central  point  of  sight  that,  while  the  minutiae  van 
ish  altogether,  even  the  more  conspicuous  objects 
become  blended  into  one.  Among  the  vanishing 
minutiae,  in  a  survey  of  this  kind,  would  be  all  exclu 
sively  terrestrial  matters.  The  earth  would  be  con 
sidered  in  its  planetary  relations  alone.  A  man,  in 
this  view,  becomes  mankind;  mankind,  a  member  of 
the  cosmical  family  of  intelligences. 

And  now,  before  proceeding  to  our  subject  proper, 
let  me  beg  the  reader's  attention  to  an  extract  or  two 
from  a  somewhat  remarkable  letter,  which  appears 


Eureka 

to  have  been  found  corked  in  a  bottle  and  floating  on 
the  Mare  Tenebrarum,  an  ocean  well  described  by  the 
Nubian  geographer,  Ptolemy  Hephestion,  but  little  fre 
quented  in  modern  days  unless  by  the  transcendental- 
ists  and  some  other  divers  for  crotchets.  The  date  of 
this  letter,  I  confess,  surprises  me  even  more  par 
ticularly  than  its  contents ;  for  it  seems  to  have  been 
written  in  the  year  two  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
forty-eight.  As  for  the  passages  I  am  about  to  tran 
scribe,  they,  I  fancy,  will  speak  for  themselves. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  friend,"  says  the  writer, 
addressing,  no  doubt,  a  contemporary, — "  do  you  know 
that  it  is  scarcely  more  than  eight  or  nine  hundred 
years  ago  since  the  metaphysicians  first  consented  to 
relieve  the  people  of  the  singular  fancy  that  there  exist 
but  two  practicable  roads  to  truth  ?  Believe  it  if  you 
can.  It  appears,  however,  that  long,  long  ago,  in  the 
night  of  time,  there  lived  a  Turkish  philosopher  called 
Aries  and  surnamed  Tottle.  [Here,  possibly,  the 
letter- writer  means  Aristotle;  the  best  names  are 
wretchedly  corrupted  in  two  or  three  thousand  years.] 
The  fame  of  this  great  man  depended  mainly  upon 
his  demonstration  that  sneezing  is  a  natural  provision, 
by  means  of  which  over-profound  thinkers  are  en 
abled  to  expel  superfluous  ideas  through  the  nose ;  but 
he  obtained  a  scarcely  less  valuable  celebrity  as  the 
founder,  or  at  all  events  as  the  principal  propagator,  of 
what  was  termed  the  deductive  or  a  priori  philosophy. 


Eureka 

He  started  with  what  he  maintained  to  be  axioms,  or 
self-evident  truths ;  and  the  now  well-understood  fact 
that  no  truths  are  self-evident  really  does  not  make  in 
the  slightest  degree  against  his  speculations;  it  was 
sufficient  for  his  purpose  that  the  truths  in  question 
were  evident  at  all.  From  axioms  he  proceeded,  logi 
cally,  to  results.  His  most  illustrious  disciples  were 
one  Tuclid,  a  geometrician  [meaning  Euclid],  and  one 
Kant,  a  Dutchman,  the  originator  of  that  species  of 
transcendentalism  which,  with  the  change  merely  of  a 
C  for  a  K,  now  bears  his  peculiar  name. 

"  Well,  Aries  Tottle  flourished  supreme,  until  the 
advent  of  one  Hog,  surnamed  *  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,' 
who  preached  an  entirely  different  system,  which  he 
called  the  a  posteriori,  or  inductive.  His  plan  referred 
altogether  to  sensation.  He  proceeded  by  observing, 
analyzing,  and  classifying  facts, — instantiac  naturae,  as 
they  were  somewhat  affectedly  called, — and  arranging 
them  into  general  laws.  In  a  word,  while  the  mode  of 
Aries  rested  on  noumena,  that  of  Hog  depended  on 
phenomena ;  and  so  great  was  the  admiration  excited 
by  this  latter  system  that,  at  its  first  introduction,  Aries 
fell  into  general  disrepute.  Finally,  however,  he  re 
covered  ground  and  was  permitted  to  divide  the  empire 
of  philosophy  with  his  more  modern  rival, — the  savants 
contenting  themselves  with  proscribing  all  other  com 
petitors,  past,  present,  and  to  come ;  putting  an  end  to 
all  controversy  on  the  topic  by  the  promulgation  of  a 


Eureka 

Median  law,  to  the  effect  that  the  Aristotelian  and 
Baconian  roads  are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be,  the  sole 
possible  avenues  to  knowledge :  '  Baconian,'  you 
must  know,  my  dear  friend,"  adds  the  letter-writer  at 
this  point,  "  was  an  adjective  invented  as  equivalent 
to  Hog-ian,  and  at  the  same  time  more  dignified  and 
euphonious. 

"  Now,  I  do  assure  you  most  positively,"  proceeds 
the  epistle,  "  that  I  represent  these  matters  fairly;  and 
you  can  easily  understand  how  restrictions  so  absurd 
on  their  very  face  must  have  operated,  in  those  days, 
to  retard  the  progress  of  true  science,  which  makes  its 
most  important  advances,  as  all  history  will  show,  by 
seemingly  intuitive  leaps.  These  ancient  ideas  con 
fined  investigation  to  crawling ;  and  I  need  not  suggest 
to  you  that  crawling,  among  varieties  of  locomotion, 
is  a  very  capital  thing  of  its  kind ;  but  because  the  tor 
toise  is  sure  of  foot,  for  this  reason  must  we  clip  the 
wings  of  the  eagles  ?  For  many  centuries  so  great  was 
the  infatuation,  about  Hog  especially,  that  a  virtual 
stop  was  put  to  all  thinking,  properly  so  called.  No 
man  dared  utter  a  truth  for  which  he  felt  himself  in 
debted  to  his  soul  alone.  It  mattered  not  whether  the 
truth  was  even  demonstrably  such;  for  the  dogma 
tizing  philosophers  of  that  epoch  regarded  only  the  road 
by  which  it  professed  to  have  been  attained.  The  end, 
with  them,  was  a  point  of  no  moment  whatever: 
'the  means!'  they  vociferated,  'let  us  look  at  the 

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means ! '  and  if,  on  scrutiny  of  the  means,  it  was  found 
neither  to  come  under  the  category  Hog,  nor  under  the 
category  Aries  (which  means  ram),  why,  then,  the 
savants  went  no  farther,  but,  calling  the  thinker  a  fool 
and  branding  him  a '  theorist,'  would  never,  thencefor 
ward,  have  anything  to  do  either  with  him  or  with  his 
truths. 

"  Now,  my  dear  friend,"  continues  the  letter-writer, 
"  it  cannot  be  maintained  that  by  the  crawling  system, 
exclusively  adopted,  men  would  arrive  at  the  maxi 
mum  amount  of  truth,  even  in  any  long  series  of  ages ; 
for  the  repression  of  imagination  was  an  evil  not  to  be 
counterbalanced  even  by  absolute  certainty  in  the 
snail  processes.  But  their  certainty  was  very  far  from 
absolute.  The  error  of  our  progenitors  was  quite 
analogous  with  that  of  the  wiseacre  who  fancies  he 
must  necessarily  see  an  object  the  more  distinctly  the 
more  closely  he  holds  it  to  his  eyes.  They  blinded 
themselves,  too,  with  the  impalpable,  titillating  Scotch 
snuff  of  detail ;  and  thus  the  boasted  facts  of  the  Hog- 
ites  were  by  no  means  always  facts,  a  point  of  little 
importance  but  for  the  assumption  that  they  always 
were.  The  vital  taint,  however,  in  Baconianism,  its 
most  lamentable  fount  of  error,  lay  in  its  tendency  to 
throw  power  and  consideration  into  the  hands  of 
merely  perceptive  men, — of  those  inter-Tritonic  min 
nows,  the  microscopical  savants,  the  diggers  and  ped- 
lers  of  minute  facts,  for  the  most  part  in  physical 

VOL. 


Eureka 

science, — facts,  all  of  which  they  retailed  at  the  same 
price  upon  the  highway,  their  value  depending,  it  was 
supposed,  simply  upon  the  fact  of  their  fact,  without 
reference  to  their  applicability  or  inapplicability  in  the 
development  of  those  ultimate  and  only  legitimate 
facts  called  law. 

"  Than  the  persons,"  the  letter  goes  on  to  say, — 
"  than  the  persons  thus  suddenly  elevated  by  the  Hog- 
ian  philosophy  into  a  station  for  which  they  were 
unfitted,  thus  transferred  from  the  sculleries  into  the 
parlors  of  science,  from  its  pantries  into  its  pulpits, — 
than  these  individuals  a  more  intolerant,  a  more  in 
tolerable,  set  of  bigots  and  tyrants  never  existed  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Their  creed,  their  text,  and  their 
sermon  were,  alike,  the  one  word  *  fact ' ;  but,  for  the 
most  part,  even  of  this  one  word  they  knew  not  even 
the  meaning.  On  those  who  ventured  to  disturb  their 
facts  with  the  view  of  putting  them  in  order  and  to 
use,  the  disciples  of  Hog  had  no  mercy  whatever.  All 
attempts  at  generalization  were  met  at  once  by  the 
words  '  theoretical,'  '  theory,'  *  theorist ' ;  all  thought, 
to  be  brief,  was  very  properly  resented  as  a  personal 
affront  to  themselves.  Cultivating  the  natural  sci 
ences  to  the  exclusion  of  metaphysics,  the  mathe 
matics,  and  logic,  many  of  these  Bacon-engendered 
philosophers — one-idea-ed,  one-sided,  and  lame  of  a 
leg — were  more  wretchedly  helpless,  more  miserably 
ignorant,  in  view  of  all  the  comprehensible  objects  of 

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knowledge,  than  the  veriest  unlettered  hind  who  proves 
that  he  knows  something,  at  least,  in  admitting  that  he 
knows  absolutely  nothing. 

"  Nor  had  our  forefathers  any  better  right  to  talk 
about  certainty,  when  pursuing,  in  blind  confidence, 
the  a  priori  path  of  axioms,  or  of  the  Ram.  At  in 
numerable  points  this  path  was  scarcely  as  straight  as 
a  ram's  horn.  The  simple  truth  is,  that  the  Aristotel 
ians  erected  their  castles  upon  a  basis  far  less  reliable 
than  air ;  for  no  such  things  as  axioms  ever  existed  or 
can  possibly  exist  at  all.  This  they  must  have  been 
very  blind  indeed  not  to  see,  or  at  least  not  to  suspect ; 
for,  even  in  their  own  day,  many  of  their  long-admitted 
*  axioms  '  had  been  abandoned — '  ex  nlhllo  nihil  fit/ 
for  example,  and  a  *  thing  cannot  act  where  it  is  not,' 
and  *  there  cannot  be  antipodes,'  and '  darkness  cannot 
proceed  from  light.'  These  and  numerous  similar 
propositions  formerly  accepted,  without  hesitation,  as 
axioms,  or  undeniable  truths,  were,  even  at  the  period 
of  which  I  speak,  seen  to  be  altogether  untenable ;  how 
absurd  in  these  people,  then,  to  persist  in  relying  upon 
a  basis,  as  immutable,  whose  mutability  had  become  so 
repeatedly  manifest! 

"  But,  even  through  evidence  afforded  by  them 
selves  against  themselves,  it  is  easy  to  convict  these 
a  priori  reasoners  of  the  grossest  unreason ;  it  is  easy 
to  show  the  futility,  the  impalpability,  of  their  axioms 
in  general.  I  have  now  lying  before  me," — it  will  be 

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observed  that  we  still  proceed  with  the  letter, — "  I 
have  now  lying  before  me  a  book  printed  about  a 
thousand  years  ago.  Pundit  assures  me  that  it  is  de 
cidedly  the  cleverest  ancient  work  on  its  topic,  which 
is  '  Logic.'  The  author,  who  was  much  esteemed  in 
his  day,  was  one  Miller,  or  Mill;  and  we  find  it  re 
corded  of  him,  as  a  point  of  some  importance,  that  he 
rode  a  mill-horse  whom  he  called  Jeremy  Bentham; 
but  let  us  glance  at  the  volume  itself. 

"  Ah ! — *  Ability  or  inability  to  conceive,'  says  Mr. 
Mill,  very  properly,  « is  in  no  case  to  be  received  as  a 
criterion  of  axiomatic  truth.'  Now,  that  this  is  a  pal 
pable  truism  no  one  in  his  senses  will  deny.  Not  to 
admit  the  proposition  is  to  insinuate  a  charge  of  vari 
ability  in  truth  itself,  whose  very  title  is  a  synonym 
of  the  steadfast.  If  ability  to  conceive  be  taken  as  a 
criterion  of  truth,  then  a  truth  to  David  Hume  would 
very  seldom  be  a  truth  to  Joe ;  and  ninety-nine  hun- 
dredths  of  what  is  undeniable  in  heaven  would  be 
demonstrable  falsity  upon  earth.  The  proposition  of 
Mr.  Mill,  then,  is  sustained.  I  will  not  grant  it  to  be 
an  axiom ;  and  this  merely  because  I  am  showing  that 
no  axioms  exist;  but,  with  a  distinction  which  could 
not  have  been  cavilled  at  even  by  Mr.  Mill  himself,  I 
am  ready  to  grant  that,  if  an  axiom  there  be,  then  the 
proposition  of  which  we  speak  has  the  fullest  right  to 
be  considered  an  axiom,  that  no  more  absolute  axiom 
is,  and,  consequently,  that  any  subsequent  proposition 

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which  shall  conflict  with  this  one  primarily  advanced 
must  be  either  a  falsity  in  itself,  that  is  to  say,  no 
axiom,  or,  if  admitted  axiomatic,  must  at  once  neu 
tralize  both  itself  and  its  predecessor. 

"  And  now,  by  the  logic  of  their  own  propounder,  let 
us  proceed  to  test  any  one  of  the  axioms  propounded. 
Let  us  give  Mr.  Mill  the  fairest  of  play.  We  will  bring 
the  point  to  no  ordinary  issue.  We  will  select  for  in 
vestigation  no  commonplace  axiom,  no  axiom  of  what, 
not  the  less  preposterously  because  only  impliedly,  he 
terms  his  secondary  class — as  if  a  positive  truth  by 
definition  could  be  either  more  or  less  positively  a 
truth;  we  will  select,  I  say,  no  axiom  of  an  unques- 
tionability  so  questionable  as  is  to  be  found  in  Euclid. 
We  will  not  talk,  for  example,  about  such  propositions 
as  that  two  straight  lines  cannot  enclose  a  space,  or 
that  the  whole  is  greater  than  any  one  of  its  parts.  We 
will  afford  the  logician  every  advantage.  We  will 
come  at  once  to  a  proposition  which  he  regards  as  the 
acme  of  the  unquestionable,  as  the  quintessence  of 
axiomatic  undeniability.  Here  it  is :  '  Contradictions 
cannot  both  be  true,  that  is,  cannot  coexist  in  nature.' 
Here  Mr.  Mill  means,  for  instance, — and  I  give  the 
most  forcible  instance  conceivable, — that  a  tree  must 
be  either  a  tree  or  not  a  tree,  that  it  cannot  be  at  the 
same  time  a  tree  and  not  a  tree:  all  which  is  quite 
reasonable  of  itself,  and  will  answer  remarkably  well 
as  an  axiom,  until  we  bring  it  into  collation  with  an 

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axiom  insisted  upon  a  few  pages  before;  in  other 
words, — words  which  I  have  previously  employed, — 
until  we  test  it  by  the  logic  of  its  own  propounder.  '  A 
tree,'  Mr.  Mill  asserts,  '  must  be  either  a  tree  or  not  a 
tree.'  Very  well :  and  now  let  me  ask  him,  Why  ? 
To  this  little  query  there  is  but  one  response;  I  defy 
any  man  living  to  invent  a  second.  The  sole  answer 
is  this : '  Because  we  find  it  impossible  to  conceive  that 
a  tree  can  be  anything  else  than  a  tree  or  not  a  tree.' 
This,  I  repeat,  is  Mr.  Mill's  sole  answer ;  he  will  not  pre 
tend  to  suggest  another ;  and  yet,  by  his  own  showing, 
his  answer  is  clearly  no  answer  at  all ;  for  has  he  not 
already  required  us  to  admit,  as  an  axiom,  that  ability 
or  inability  to  conceive  is  in  no  case  to  be  taken  as  a 
criterion  of  axiomatic  truth  ?  Thus  all,  absolutely  all, 
his  argumentation  is  at  sea  without  a  rudder.  Let  it 
not  be  urged  that  an  exception  from  the  general  rule  is 
to  be  made  in  cases  where  the  '  impossibility  to  con 
ceive  '  is  so  peculiarly  great,  as  when  we  are  called 
upon  to  conceive  a  tree  both  a  tree  and  not  a  tree.  Let 
no  attempt,  I  say,  be  made  at  urging  this  sotticism; 
for,  in  the  first  place,  there  are  no  degrees  of  *  impos 
sibility,'  and  thus  no  one  impossible  conception  can  be 
more  peculiarly  impossible  than  another  impossible 
conception;  in  the  second  place,  Mr.  Mill  himself,  no 
doubt  after  thorough  deliberation,  has  most  distinctly 
and  most  rationally  excluded  all  opportunity  for  ex 
ception  by  the  emphasis  of  his  proposition,  that,  in  no 

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case,  is  ability  or  inability  to  conceive  to  be  taken  as  a 
criterion  of  axiomatic  truth;  in  the  third  place,  even 
were  exceptions  admissible  at  all,  it  remains  to  be 
shown  how  any  exception  is  admissible  here.  That  a 
tree  can  be  both  a  tree  and  not  a  tree  is  an  idea  which 
the  angels  or  the  devils  may  entertain,  and  which  no 
doubt  many  an  earthly  bedlamite  or  transcendental- 
ist  does. 

"  Now,  I  do  not  quarrel  with  these  ancients,"  con 
tinues  the  letter-writer,  "  so  much  on  account  of  the 
transparent  frivolity  of  their  logic,  which,  to  be  plain, 
was  baseless,  worthless,  and  fantastic  altogether,  as 
on  account  of  their  pompous  and  infatuate  proscrip 
tion  of  all  other  roads  to  truth  than  the  two  narrow 
and  crooked  paths,  the  one  of  creeping  and  the  other 
of  crawling,  to  which,  in  their  ignorant  perversity, 
they  have  dared  to  confine  the  soul — the  soul  which 
loves  nothing  so  well  as  to  soar  in  those  regions  of 
illimitable  intuition  which  are  utterly  incognizant  of 
'  path.' 

"  By  the  by,  my  dear  friend,  is  it  not  an  evidence  of 
the  mental  slavery  entailed  upon  those  bigoted  people 
by  their  Hogs  and  their  Rams  that,  in  spite  of  the  eter 
nal  prating  of  their  savants  about  roads  to  truth,  none 
of  them  fell,  even  by  accident,  into  what  we  now  so 
distinctly  perceive  to  be  the  broadest,  the  straightest, 
and  most  available  of  all  mere  roads — the  great  thor 
oughfare,  the  majestic  highway  of  the  Consistent  ?  Is 

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it  not  wonderful  that  they  should  have  failed  to  de 
duce  from  the  works  of  God  the  vitally  momentous 
consideration  that  a  perfect  consistency  can  be  noth 
ing  but  an  absolute  truth  ?  How  plain,  how  rapid  our 
progress  since  the  late  announcement  of  this  proposi 
tion!  By  its  means  investigation  has  been  taken  out 
of  the  hands  of  the  ground-moles  and  given  as  a  duty, 
rather  than  as  a  task,  to  the  true,  to  the  only  true 
thinkers,  to  the  generally  educated  men  of  ardent 
imagination.  These  latter — our  Keplers,  our  Laplaces 
— *  speculate,'  '  theorize ' :  these  are  the  terms.  Can 
you  not  fancy  the  shout  of  scorn  with  which  they  would 
be  received  by  our  progenitors,  were  it  possible  for 
them  to  be  looking  over  my  shoulders  as  I  write  ? 
The  Keplers,  I  repeat,  speculate,  theorize;  and  their 
theories  are  merely  corrected,  reduced,  sifted,  cleared, 
little  by  little,  of  their  chaff  of  inconsistency,  until  at 
length  there  stands  apparent  and  unencumbered  con 
sistency — a  consistency  which  the  most  stolid  admit, 
because  it  is  a  consistency,  to  be  an  absolute  and  un 
questionable  truth. 

"  I  have  often  thought,  my  friend,  that  it  must  have 
puzzled  these  dogmaticians  of  a  thousand  years  ago 
to  determine,  even,  by  which  of  their  two  boasted 
roads  it  is  that  the  cryptographist  attains  the  solution 
of  the  more  complicated  ciphers;  or  by  which  of  them 
Champollion  guided  mankind  to  those  important  and 
innumerable  truths  which,  for  so  many  centuries,  have 

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lain  entombed  amid  the  phonetical  hieroglyphics  of 
Egypt.  In  especial,  would  it  not  have  given  these 
bigots  some  trouble  to  determine  by  which  of  their 
two  roads  was  reached  the  most  momentous  and  sub 
lime  of  all  their  truths — the  truth,  the  fact,  of  gravita 
tion  ?  Newton  deduced  it  from  the  laws  of  Kepler. 
Kepler  admitted  that  these  laws  he  guessed,  these  laws 
whose  investigation  disclosed  to  the  greatest  of  British 
astronomers  that  principle,  the  basis  of  all  (existing) 
physical  principle,  in  going  behind  which  we  enter  at 
once  the  nebulous  kingdom  of  metaphysics.  Yes! 
these  vital  laws  Kepler  guessed;  that  is  to  say,  he 
imagined  them.  Had  he  been  asked  to  point  out 
either  the  deductive  or  inductive  route  by  which  he 
attained  them,  his  reply  might  have  been,  *  I  know 
nothing  about  routes,  but  I  do  know  the  machinery  of 
the  universe.  Here  it  is.  I  grasped  it  with  my  soul ; 
I  reached  it  by  mere  dint  of  intuition.'  Alas,  poor 
ignorant  old  man !  Could  not  any  metaphysician  have 
told  him  that  what  he  called  *  intuition '  was  but  the 
conviction  resulting  from  deductions  and  inductions, 
of  which  the  processes  were  so  shadowy  as  to  have 
escaped  his  consciousness,  eluded  his  reason,  or  bidden 
defiance  to  his  capacity  of  expression  ?  How  great  a 
pity  it  is  that  some  '  moral  philosopher '  had  not  en 
lightened  him  about  all  this !  How  it  would  have  com 
forted  him  on  his  death-bed  to  know  that,  instead  of 
having  gone  intuitively  and  thus  unbecomingly,  he 

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had,  in  fact,  proceeded  decorously  and  legitimately, 
that  is  to  say,  Hog-ishly,  or  at  least  Ram-ishly,  into 
the  vast  halls  where  lay  gleaming,  untended,  and  hith 
erto  untouched  by  mortal  hand,  unseen  by  mortal 
eye,  the  imperishable  and  priceless  secrets  of  the 
universe ! 

"Yes,  Kepler  was  essentially  a  theorist;  but  this 
title,  now  of  so  much  sanctity,  was,  in  those  ancient 
days,  a  designation  of  supreme  contempt.  It  is  only 
now  that  men  begin  to  appreciate  that  divine  old  man, 
to  sympathize  with  the  prophetical  and  poetical  rhap 
sody  of  his  ever-memorable  words.  For  my  part," 
continues  the  unknown  correspondent,  "  I  glow  with 
a  sacred  fire  when  I  even  think  of  them,  and  I  feel 
that  I  shall  never  grow  weary  of  their  repetition.  In 
concluding  this  letter,  let  me  have  the  real  pleasure  of 
transcribing  them  once  again :  '  I  care  not  whether  my 
work  be  read  now  or  by  posterity.  I  can  afford  to 
wait  a  century  for  readers  when  God  himself  has 
waited  six  thousand  years  for  an  observer.  I  triumph. 
I  have  stolen  the  golden  secret  of  the  Egyptians.  I 
will  indulge  my  sacred  fury.'  " 

Here  end  my  quotations  from  this  very  unaccount 
able  and,  perhaps,  somewhat  impertinent  epistle ;  and 
perhaps  it  would  be  folly  to  comment,  hi  any  respect, 
upon  the  chimerical,  not  to  say  revolutionary,  fancies 
of  the  writer,  whoever  he  is, — fancies  so  radically  at  war 
with  the  well-considered  and  well-settled  opinions  of 

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this  age.    Let  us  proceed,  then,  to  our  legitimate  thesis, 
"  The  Universe." 

This  thesis  admits  a  choice  between  two  modes  of 
discussion : — we  may  ascend  or  descend.  Beginning  at 
our  own  point  of  view,  at  the  earth  on  which  we 
stand,  we  may  pass  to  the  other  planets  of  our  system, 
thence  to  the  sun,  thence  to  our  system  considered 
collectively,  and  thence,  through  other  systems,  in 
definitely  outward;  or,  commencing  on  high  at  some 
point  as  definite  as  we  can  make  it  or  conceive  it,  we 
may  come  down  to  the  habitation  of  man.  Usually, 
that  is  to  say,  in  ordinary  essays  on  astronomy,  the 
first  of  these  two  modes  is,  with  certain  reservation, 
adopted ;  this,  for  the  obvious  reason  that  astronomi 
cal  facts,  merely,  and  principles,  being  the  object,  that 
object  is  best  fulfilled  in  stepping  from  the  known, 
because  proximate,  gradually  onward  to  the  point 
where  all  certitude  becomes  lost  in  the  remote.  For 
my  present  purpose,  however,  that  of  enabling  the 
mind  to  take  in,  as  if  from  afar  and  at  one  glance,  a 
distant  conception  of  the  individual  universe,  it  is 
clear  that  a  descent  to  small  from  great,  to  the  out 
skirts  from  the  centre  (if  we  could  establish  a  centre), 
to  the  end  from  the  beginning  (if  we  could  fancy  a 
beginning),  would  be  the  preferable  course,  but  for  the 
difficulty,  if  not  impossibility,  of  presenting,  in  this 
course,  to  the  unastronomical,  a  picture  at  all  com 
prehensible  in  regard  to  such  considerations  as  are 

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involved  in  quantity,  that  is  to  say,  in  number,  magni 
tude,  and  distance. 

Now,  distinctness,  intelligibility,  at  all  points,  is 
a  primary  feature  in  my  general  design.  On  impor 
tant  topics  it  is  better  to  be  a  good  deal  prolix  than 
even  a  very  little  obscure.  But  abstruseness  is  a 
quality  appertaining  to  no  subject  perse,  All  are 
alike,  in  facility  of  comprehension,  to  him  who  ap 
proaches  them  by  properly  graduated  steps.  It  is 
merely  because  a  stepping-stone,  here  and  there,  is 
heedlessly  left  unsupplied  in  our  road  to  differential 
calculus  that  this  latter  is  not  altogether  as  simple  a 
thing  as  a  sonnet  by  Mr.  Solomon  Seesaw. 

By  way  of  admitting,  then,  no  chance  for  misappre 
hension,  I  think  it  advisable  to  proceed  as  if  even  the 
more  obvious  facts  of  astronomy  were  unknown  to  the 
reader.  In  combining  the  two  modes  of  discussion  to 
which  I  have  referred,  I  propose  to  avail  myself  of  the 
advantages  peculiar  to  each,  and  very  especially  of 
the  iteration  hi  detail  which  will  be  unavoidable  as  a 
consequence  of  the  plan.  Commencing  with  a  de 
scent,  I  shall  reserve  for  the  return  upward  those 
indispensable  considerations  of  quantity  to  which  allu 
sion  has  already  been  made. 

Let  us  begin,  then,  at  once,  with  that  merest  of 
words,  "  infinity."  This,  like  "  God,"  "  spirit,"  and 
some  other  expressions  of  which  the  equivalents  exist 
in  all  languages,  is  by  no  means  the  expression  of  an 

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idea,  but  of  an  effort  at  one.  It  stands  for  the  possible 
attempt  at  an  impossible  conception.  Man  needed  a 
term  by  which  to  point  out  the  direction  of  this  effort, 
the  cloud  behind  which  lay,  forever  invisible,  the  ob 
ject  of  this  attempt.  A  word,  in  fine,  was  demanded, 
by  means  of  which  one  human  being  might  put  him 
self  in  relation  at  once  with  another  human  being  and 
with  a  certain  tendency  of  the  human  intellect.  Out 
of  this  demand  arose  the  word  "  infinity,"  which  is 
thus  the  representative  but  of  the  thought  of  a  thought. 
As  regards  that  infinity  now  considered,  the  infinity 
of  space,  we  often  hear  it  said  that  "  its  idea  is  ad 
mitted  by  the  mind,  is  acquiesced  in,  is  entertained,  on 
account  of  the  greater  difficulty  which  attends  the 
conception  of  a  limit."  But  this  is  merely  one  of 
those  phrases  by  which  even  profound  thinkers,  time 
out  of  mind,  have  occasionally  taken  pleasure  in  de 
ceiving  themselves.  The  quibble  lies  concealed  in  the 
word  "  difficulty."  "  The  mind,"  we  are  told,  "  en 
tertains  the  idea  of  limitless,  through  the  greater 
difficulty  which  it  finds  in  entertaining  that  of  limited, 
space."  Now,  were  the  proposition  but  fairly  put,  its 
absurdity  would  become  transparent  at  once.  Clearly, 
there  is  no  more  difficulty  in  the  case.  The  assertion 
intended,  if  presented  according  to  its  intention  and 
without  sophistry,  would  run  thus :  "  The  mind  admits 
the  idea  of  limitless,  through  the  greater  impossibility 
of  entertaining  that  of  limited,  space." 

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It  must  be  immediately  seen  that  this  is  not  a  ques 
tion  of  two  statements  between  whose  respective  credi 
bilities,  or  of  two  arguments  between  whose  respective 
validities,  the  reason  is  called  upon  to  decide;  it  is  a 
matter  of  two  conceptions,  directly  conflicting,  and 
each  avowedly  impossible,  one  of  which  the  intellect 
is  supposed  to  be  capable  of  entertaining,  on  account 
of  the  greater  impossibility  of  entertaining  the  other. 
The  choice  is  not  made  between  two  difficulties ;  it  is 
merely  fancied  to  be  made  between  two  impossibilities. 
Now,  of  the  former  there  are  degrees,  but  of  the  latter, 
none,  just  as  our  impertinent  letter-writer  has  al 
ready  suggested.  A  task  may  be  more  or  less  difficult ; 
but  it  is  either  possible  or  not  possible, — there  are  no 
gradations.  It  might  be  more  difficult  to  overthrow 
the  Andes  than  an  ant-hill,  but  it  can  be  no  more  im 
possible  to  annihilate  the  matter  of  the  one  than  the 
matter  of  the  other.  A  man  may  jump  ten  feet  with 
less  difficulty  than  he  can  jump  twenty,  but  the  im 
possibility  of  his  leaping  to  the  moon  is  not  a  whit  less 
than  that  of  his  leaping  to  the  dog-star. 

Since  all  this  is  undeniable ;  since  the  choice  of  the 
mind  is  to  be  made  between  impossibilities  of  concep 
tion;  since  one  impossibility  cannot  be  greater  than 
another;  and  since,  thus,  one  cannot  be  preferred  to 
another,  the  philosophers  who  not  only  maintain,  on 
the  grounds  mentioned,  man's  idea  of  infinity,  but,  on 
account  of  such  supposititious  idea,  infinity  itself,  are 

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plainly  engaged  in  demonstrating  one  impossible  thing 
to  be  possible  by  showing  how  it  is  that  some  one 
other  thing  is  impossible  too.  This,  it  will  be  said,  is 
nonsense,  and  perhaps  it  is;  indeed,  I  think  it  very 
capital  nonsense,  but  forego  all  claim  to  it  as  nonsense 
of  mine. 

The  readiest  mode,  however,  of  displaying  the  fal 
lacy  of  the  philosophical  argument  on  this  question 
is  by  simply  adverting  to  a  fact  respecting  it  which  has 
been  hitherto  quite  overlooked — the  fact  that  the  ar 
gument  alluded  to  both  proves  and  disproves  its  own 
proposition.  "  The  mind  is  impelled,"  say  the  theo 
logians  and  others,  "  to  admit  a  First  Cause,  by  the 
superior  difficulty  it  experiences  in  conceiving  cause 
beyond  cause  without  end."  The  quibble,  as  before, 
lies  in  the  word  "  difficulty,"  but  here  what  is  it  em 
ployed  to  sustain  ?  A  First  Cause.  And  what  is  a 
First  Cause  ?  An  ultimate  termination  of  causes. 
And  what  is  an  ultimate  termination  of  causes  ?  Fin- 
ity — the  finite.  Thus  the  one  quibble,  in  two  pro 
cesses,  by  God  knows  how  many  philosophers,  is  made 
to  support  now  finity  and  now  Infinity;  could  it  not 
be  brought  to  support  something  besides  ?  As  for  the 
quibbles,  they,  at  least,  are  insupportable.  But,  to 
dismiss  them,  what  they  prove  in  the  one  case  is  the 
identical  nothing  which  they  demonstrate  in  the  other. 

Of  course,  no  one  will  suppose  that  I  here  contend 
for  the  absolute  impossibility  of  that  which  we  attempt 

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to  convey  in  the  word  "  infinity."  My  purpose  is  but 
to  show  the  folly  of  endeavoring  to  prove  infinity 
itself,  or  even  our  conception  of  it,  by  any  such  blun 
dering  ratiocination  as  that  which  is  ordinarily  em 
ployed. 

Nevertheless,  as  an  individual,  I  may  be  permitted 
to  say  that  I  cannot  conceive  infinity,  and  am 
convinced  that  no  human  being  can.  A  mind  not 
thoroughly  self-conscious,  not  accustomed  to  the 
introspective  analysis  of  its  own  operations,  will, 
it  is  true,  often  deceive  itself  by  supposing  that  it 
has  entertained  the  conception  of  which  we  speak. 
In  the  effort  to  entertain  it,  we  proceed  step  beyond 
step,  we  fancy  point  still  beyond  point;  and  so  long 
as  we  continue  the  effort  it  may  be  said,  in  fact,  that 
we  are  tending  to  the  formation  of  the  idea  designed ; 
while  the  strength  of  the  impression  that  we  actually 
form  or  have  formed  is  in  the  ratio  of  the  period  during 
which  we  keep  up  the  mental  endeavor.  But  it  is  in 
the  act  of  discontinuing  the  endeavor,  of  fulfilling  (as 
we  think)  the  idea,  of  putting  the  finishing  stroke  (as 
we  suppose)  to  the  conception,  that  we  overthrow  at 
once  the  whole  fabric  of  our  fancy  by  resting  upon 
some  one  ultimate,  and  therefore  definite,  point.  This 
fact,  however,  we  fail  to  perceive,  on  account  of  the 
absolute  coincidence,  in  time,  between  the  settling 
down  upon  the  ultimate  point  and  the  act  of  cessation 
in  thinking.  In  attempting,  on  the  other  hand,  to 

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frame  the  idea  of  a  limited  space,  we  merely  converse 
the  processes  which  involve  the  impossibility. 

We  believe  in  a  God.  We  may  or  may  not  believe 
in  finite  or  in  infinite  space;  but  our  belief,  in  such 
cases,  is  more  properly  designated  as  faith,  and  is  a 
matter  quite  distinct  from  that  belief  proper,  from 
that  intellectual  belief,  which  presupposes  the  mental 
conception. 

The  fact  is,  that,  upon  the  enunciation  of  any  one 
of  that  class  of  terms  to  which  "  infinity  "  belongs,  the 
class  representing  thoughts  of  thought,  he  who  has  a 
right  to  say  that  he  thinks  at  all  feels  himself  called 
upon  not  to  entertain  a  conception,  but  simply  to 
direct  his  mental  vision  toward  some  given  point,  in 
the  intellectual  firmament,  where  lies  a  nebula  never 
to  be  resolved.  To  solve  it,  indeed,  he  makes  no 
effort;  for  with  a  rapid  instinct  he  comprehends,  not 
only  the  impossibility,  but,  as  regards  all  human  pur 
poses,  the  inessentiality,  of  its  solution.  He  perceives 
that  the  Deity  has  not  designed  it  to  be  solved.  He 
sees,  at  once,  that  it  lies  out  of  the  brain  of  man,  and 
even  how,  if  not  exactly  why,  it  lies  out  of  it.  There 
are  people,  I  am  aware,  who,  busying  themselves  in 
attempts  at  the  unattainable,  acquire  very  easily,  by 
dint  of  the  jargon  they  emit,  among  those  think- 
ers-that-they-think,  with  whom  darkness  and  depth 
are  synonymous,  a  kind  of  cuttlefish  reputation  for 
profundity;  but  the  finest  quality  of  thought  is  its 


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self -cognizance ;  and  with  some  little  equivocation  it 
may  be  said  that  no  fog  of  the  mind  can  well  be  greater 
than  that  which,  extending  to  the  very  boundaries  of 
the  mental  domain,  shuts  out  even  these  boundaries 
themselves  from  comprehension. 

It  will  now  be  understood  that,  in  using  the  phrase, 
"  infinity  of  space,"  I  make  no  call  upon  the  reader 
to  entertain  the  impossible  conception  of  an  absolute 
infinity.  I  refer  simply  to  the  "  utmost  conceivable 
expanse"  of  space — a  shadowy  and  fluctuating  do 
main,  now  shrinking,  now  swelling,  in  accordance  with 
the  vacillating  energies  of  the  imagination. 

Hitherto,  the  universe  of  stars  has  always  been  con 
sidered  as  coincident  with  the  universe  proper,  as  I 
have  defined  it  in  the  commencement  of  this  discourse. 
It  has  been  always  either  directly  or  indirectly  as 
sumed,  at  least  since  the  dawn  of  intelligible  astron 
omy,  that,  were  it  possible  for  us  to  attain  any  given 
point  in  space,  we  should  still  find,  on  all  sides  of  us, 
an  ^terminable  succession  of  stars.  This  was  the  un 
tenable  idea  of  Pascal  when  making  perhaps  the  most 
successful  attempt  ever  made  at  periphrasing  the  con 
ception  for  which  we  struggle  in  the  word  "  universe." 
"  It  is  a  sphere,"  he  says,  "  of  which  the  centre  is 
everywhere,  the  circumference  nowhere."  But  al 
though  this  intended  definition  is,  in  fact,  no  definition 
of  the  universe  of  stars,  we  may  accept  it,  with  some 
mental  reservation,  as  a  definition  (rigorous  enough 

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for  all  practical  purposes)  of  the  universe  proper,  that 
is  to  say,  of  the  universe  of  space.  This  latter,  then, 
let  us  regard  as  "  a  sphere  of  which  the  centre  is  every 
where,  the  circumference  nowhere."  In  fact,  while 
we  find  it  impossible  to  fancy  an  end  to  space,  we  have 
no  difficulty  in  picturing  to  ourselves  any  one  of  an 
infinity  of  beginnings. 

As  our  starting-point,  then,  let  us  adopt  the  God 
head.  Of  this  Godhead,  in  itself,  he  alone  is  not  im 
becile,  he  alone  is  not  impious,  who  propounds — 
nothing.  "  Nous  ne  connaissons  rien,"  says  the  Baron 
de  Bielfeld — "  Nous  ne  connaissons  rien  de  la  nature 
ou  de  Pessence  de  Dieu :  pour  savoir  ce  qu'il  est,  il  f aut 
£tre  Dieu  meme." — "  We  know  absolutely  nothing 
of  the  nature  or  essence  of  God :  in  order  to  compre 
hend  what  He  is,  we  should  have  to  be  God  ourselves." 

"  We  should  have  to  be  God  ourselves!  "  With  a 
phrase  so  startling  as  this  yet  ringing  in  my  ears,  I 
nevertheless  venture  to  demand  if  this  our  present 
ignorance  of  the  Deity  is  an  ignorance  to  which  the 
soul  is  everlastingly  condemned. 

By  Him,  however,  now,  at  least,  the  Incomprehen 
sible  ;  by  Him,  assuming  Him  as  Spirit,  that  is  to  say, 
as  not  matter,  a  distinction  which,  for  all  intelligible 
purposes,  will  stand  well  instead  of  a  definition;  by 
Him,  then,  existing  as  Spirit,  let  us  content  ourselves, 
to-night,  with  supposing  to  have  been  created,  or  made 
out  of  nothing,  by  dint  of  His  volition,  at  some  point 


Eureka 

of  space  which  we  will  take  as  a  centre,  at  some  period 
into  which  we  do  not  pretend  to  inquire,  but  at  all 
events  immensely  remote ;  by  Him,  then,  again,  let  us 
suppose  to  have  been  created — what  ?  This  is  a  vi 
tally  momentous  epoch  in  our  considerations.  What 
is  it  that  we  are  justified,  that  alone  we  are  justified, 
in  supposing  to  have  been,  primarily  and  solely, 
created  ? 

We  have  attained  a  point  where  only  intuition  can 
aid  us;  but  now  let  me  recur  to  the  idea  which  I  have 
already  suggested  as  that  alone  which  we  can  properly 
entertain  of  intuition.  It  is  but  the  conviction  arising 
from  those  inductions  or  deductions  of  which  the  pro 
cesses  are  so  shadowy  as  to  escape  our  consciousness, 
elude  our  reason,  or  defy  our  capacity  of  expression. 
With  this  understanding,  I  now  assert  that  an  intui 
tion  altogether  irresistible,  although  inexpressible, 
forces  me  to  the  conclusion  that  what  God  originally 
created,  that  that  matter  which,  by  dint  of  His  voli 
tion,  He  first  made  from  His  Spirit  or  from  nihility, 
could  have  been  nothing  but  matter  in  its  utmost  con 
ceivable  state  of what  ? — of  simplicity  ? 

This  will  be  found  the  sole  absolute  assumption  of 
my  discourse.  I  use  the  word  "  assumption  "  in  its 
ordinary  sense;  yet  I  maintain  that  even  this  my 
primary  proposition  is  very,  very  far  indeed  from 
being  really  a  mere  assumption.  Nothing  was  ever 
more  certainly — no  human  conclusion  was  ever,  in 

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fact,  more  regularly,  more  rigorously  deduced;  but, 
alas!  the  processes  lie  out  of  the  human  analysis,  at 
all  events  are  beyond  the  utterance  of  the  human 
tongue. 

Let  us  now  endeavor  to  conceive  what  matter  must 
be  when,  or  if,  hi  its  absolute  extreme  of  simplicity. 
Here  the  reason  flies  at  once  to  imparticularity,  to  a 
particle,  to  one  particle,  a  particle  of  one  kind,  of  one 
character,  of  one  nature,  of  one  size,  of  one  form, — a 
particle,  therefore,  "  without  form  and  void," — a  par 
ticle  positively  a  particle  at  all  points,  a  particle  abso 
lutely  unique,  individual,  undivided,  and  not  indivisible 
only  because  He  who  created  it,  by  dint  of  His  will,  can 
by  an  infinitely  less  energetic  exercise  of  the  same  will, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  divide  it. 

Oneness,  then,  is  all  that  I  predicate  of  the  originally 
created  matter;  but  I  propose  to  show  that  this  one 
ness  is  a  principle  abundantly  sufficient  to  account 
for  the  constitution,  the  existing  phenomena,  and  the 
plainly  inevitable  annihilation  of  at  least  the  material 
universe. 

The  willing  into  being  the  primordial  particle  has 
completed  the  act,  or  more  properly  the  conception,  of 
Creation.  We  now  proceed  to  the  ultimate  purpose 
for  which  we  are  to  suppose  the  particle  created,  that 
is  to  say,  the  ultimate  purpose  so  far  as  our  considera 
tions  yet  enable  us  to  see  it,  the  constitution  of  the 
universe  from  it,  the  particle. 

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This  constitution  has  been  effected  by  forcing  the 
originally  and  therefore  normally  one  into  the  abnor 
mal  condition  of  many.  An  action  of  this  character 
implies  reaction.  A  diffusion  from  unity,  under  the 
conditions,  involves  a  tendency  to  return  into  unity — 
a  tendency  ineradicable  until  satisfied.  But  on  these 
points  I  will  speak  more  fully  hereafter. 

The  assumption  of  absolute  unity  in  the  primordial 
particle  includes  that  of  infinite  divisibility.  Let  us 
conceive  the  particle,  then,  to  be  only  not  totally 
exhausted  by  diffusion  into  space.  From  the  one  par 
ticle,  as  a  centre,  let  us  suppose  to  be  irradiated  spheri 
cally,  in  all  directions,  to  immeasurable  but  still 
definite  distances  in  the  previously  vacant  space,  a 
certain  inexpressibly  great  yet  limited  number  of  un 
imaginably  yet  not  infinitely  minute  atoms. 

Now,  of  these  atoms,  thus  diffused,  or  upon  diffusion, 
what  conditions  are  we  permitted,  not  to  assume,  but 
to  infer,  from  consideration  as  well  of  their  source  as 
of  the  character  of  the  design  apparent  in  their  diffu 
sion  ?  Unity  being  their  source,  and  difference  from 
unity  the  character  of  the  design  manifested  in  their 
diffusion,  we  are  warranted  in  supposing  this  charac 
ter  to  be  at  least  generally  preserved  throughout  the 
design,  and  to  form  a  portion  of  the  design  itself ;  that 
is  to  say,  we  shall  be  warranted  in  conceiving  con 
tinual  differences  at  all  points  from  the  uniquity  and 
simplicity  of  the  origin.  But,  for  these  reasons,  shall 

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we  be  justified  in  imagining  the  atoms  heterogeneous, 
dissimilar,  unequal,  and  inequidistant  ?  More  expli 
citly,  are  we  to  consider  no  two  atoms  as,  at  their  dif 
fusion,  of  the  same  nature,  or  of  the  same  form,  or  of 
the  same  size  ? — and,  after  fulfilment  of  their  diffusion 
into  space,  is  absolute  inequidistance,  each  from  each, 
to  be  understood  of  all  of  them  ?  In  such  arrange 
ment,  under  such  conditions,  we  most  easily  and  im 
mediately  comprehend  the  subsequent  most  feasible 
carrying  out  to  completion  of  any  such  design  as  that 
which  I  have  suggested — the  design  of  variety  out  of 
unity,  diversity  out  of  sameness,  heterogeneity  out  of 
homogeneity,  complexity  out  of  simplicity,  in  a  word, 
the  utmost  possible  multiplicity  of  relation  out  of  the 
emphatically  irrelative  one.  Undoubtedly,  therefore, 
we  should  be  warranted  hi  assuming  all  that  has  been 
mentioned  but  for  the  reflection,  first,  that  superero 
gation  is  not  presumable  of  any  Divine  Act;  and, 
secondly,  that  the  object  supposed  in  view  appears  as 
feasible  when  some  of  the  conditions  hi  question  are 
dispensed  with,  in  the  beginning,  as  when  all  are  un 
derstood  immediately  to  exist.  I  mean  to  say  that  some 
are  involved  in  the  rest,  or  so  instantaneous  a  conse 
quence  of  them  as  to  make  the  distinction  inappre 
ciable.  Difference  of  size,  for  example,  will  at  once 
be  brought  about  through  the  tendency  of  one  atom 
to  a  second,  in  preference  to  a  third,  on  account  of  par 
ticular  inequidistance;  which  is  to  be  comprehended 

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as  particular  inequidistances  between  centres  of  quan 
tity,  in  neighboring  atoms  of  different  form — a  matter 
not  at  all  interfering  with  the  generally  equable  dis 
tribution  of  the  atoms.  Difference  of  kind,  too,  is 
easily  conceived  to  be  merely  a  result  of  differences  in 
size  and  form,  taken  more  or  less  conjointly ;  in  fact, 
since  the  unity  of  the  particle  proper  implies  absolute 
homogeneity,  we  cannot  imagine  the  atoms,  at  their 
diffusion,  differing  in  kind,  without  imagining,  at  the 
same  time,  a  special  exercise  of  the  Divine  Will,  at  the 
emission  of  each  atom,  for  the  purpose  of  effecting,  in 
each,  a  change  of  its  essential  nature :  so  fantastic  an 
idea  is  the  less  to  be  indulged,  as  the  object  proposed  is 
seen  to  be  thoroughly  attainable  without  such  minute 
and  elaborate  interposition.  We  perceive,  therefore, 
upon  the  whole,  that  it  would  be  supererogation,  and 
consequently  unphilosophical,  to  predicate  of  the  at 
oms,  in  view  of  their  purposes,  anything  more  than 
difference  of  form  at  their  dispersion,  with  particular 
inequidistance  after  it,  all  other  differences  arising  at 
once  out  of  these,  in  the  very  first  processes  of  mass 
constitution.  We  thus  establish  the  universe  on  a 
purely  geometrical  basis.  Of  course,  it  is  by  no  means 
necessary  to  assume  absolute  difference,  even  of  form, 
among  all  the  atoms  irradiated,  any  more  than  abso 
lute  particular  inequidistance  of  each  from  each.  We 
are  required  to  conceive  merely  that  no  neighboring 
atoms  are  of  similar  form,  no  atoms  which  can  ever 

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a*  particular  inequidistances  between  centres  of  qui 
tity,  in  neighboring  atoms  of  different  form — a  mal 
not  at  all  interfering  with  the  generally  equable  c 
tribution  of  the  atoms.  Difference  of  kind,  too, 
easily  conceived  to  be  merely  a  result  of  differences 
size  and  form,  taken  more  or  less  conjointly ;  in  f i 
since  the  unity  of  the  particle  proper  implies  absol 
homogeneity,  we  cannot  imagine  the  atoms,  at  tt 
diffusion,  differing  in  kind,  without  imagining,  at 
same  time,  a  special  exercise  of  the  Divine  Will,  at 
emission  of  each  atom,  for  the  purpose  of  effecting, 
each,  a  change  of  its  ellftpifilS^ure :  so  fantastic 
11 1  il  iTiihaljaatlaily  ihdniptijM  tin  qbjecta&f$®c£$ 
sitertftPB§aaHEfcughly  attainable  without  such  min 
and  elaborate  interpoefelea.  We  perceive,  therefc 
upon  the  whote,  tfcMtt  it  WiM  it  ffiftrerogation,  i 
consequently  uapteftaaopfcicai,  to  frattcate  el  fee 
oms,  in  vi*w  of  tMr  fMpMe*  aaqpMQ(  more  tt 
difference  of  fern  *t  ifeeir  dtapersion,  with  particu 
inequidistanct  dt«r  it,  all  other  differences  arising 
once  out  of  that*,  in  the  very  first  processes  of  m 
constitution.  We  thus  establish  the  universe  or 
purely  geometrical  basis.  Of  course,  it  is  by  no  me; 
necessary  to  assume  absolute  difference,  even  of  foi 
among  all  the  atoms  irradiated,  any  more  than  ab 
lute  particular  inequidistance  of  each  from  each, 
are  required  to  conceive  merely  that  no  neighbor 
atoms  are  of  similar  form,  no  atoms  which  can  e 


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approximate  until  their  inevitable  reunition  at  the 
end. 

Although  the  immediate  and  perpetual  tendency  of 
the  disunited  atoms  to  return  into  their  normal  unity 
is  implied,  as  I  have  said,  in  their  abnormal  diffusion, 
still  it  is  clear  that  this  tendency  will  be  without  con 
sequence — a  tendency  and  no  more — until  the  diffu 
sive  energy,  in  ceasing  to  be  exerted,  shall  leave  it,  the 
tendency,  free  to  seek  its  satisfaction.  The  Divine 
Act,  however,  being  considered  determinate,  and  dis 
continued  on  fulfilment  of  the  diffusion,  we  under 
stand,  at  once,  a  reaction,  in  other  words,  a  satisfi- 
able  tendency  of  the  disunited  atoms  to  return  into 
one. 

But  the  diffusive  energy  being  withdrawn,  and  the 
reaction  having  commenced  in  furtherance  of  the  ulti 
mate  design,  that  of  the  utmost  possible  relation, 
this  design  is  now  in  danger  of  being  frustrated,  in  de 
tail,  by  reason  of  that  very  tendency  to  return  which 
is  to  effect  its  accomplishment  in  general.  Multi 
plicity  is  the  object;  but  there  is  nothing  to  prevent 
proximate  atoms  from  lapsing  at  once,  through  the 
now  satisfiable  tendency,  before  the  fulfilment  of  any 
ends  proposed  in  multiplicity,  into  absolute  oneness 
among  themselves;  there  is  nothing  to  impede  the 
aggregation  of  various  unique  masses,  at  various  points 
of  space ;  in  other  words,  nothing  to  interfere  with  the 
accumulation  of  various  masses,  each  absolutely  one. 

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For  the  effectual  and  thorough  completion  of  the 
general  design,  we  thus  see  the  necessity  for  a  repul 
sion  of  limited  capacity,  a  separative  something  which, 
on  withdrawal  of  the  diffusive  Volition,  shall  at  the  same 
time  allow  the  approach,  and  forbid  the  junction,  of 
the  atoms,  suffering  them  infinitely  to  approximate, 
while  denying  them  positive  contact ;  in  a  word,  hav 
ing  the  power,  up  to  a  certain  epoch,  of  preventing 
their  coalition,  but  no  ability  to  interfere  with  their 
coalescence  in  any  respect  or  degree.  The  repulsion, 
already  considered  as  so  peculiarly  limited  in  other 
regards,  must  be  understood,  let  me  repeat,  as  having 
power  to  prevent  absolute  coalition,  only  up  to  a  cer 
tain  epoch.  Unless  we  are  to  conceive  that  the  ap 
petite  for  unity  among  the  atoms  is  doomed  to  be 
satisfied  never ;  unless  we  are  to  conceive  that  what 
had  a  beginning  is  to  have  no  end,  a  conception 
which  cannot  really  be  entertained,  however  much 
we  may  talk  or  dream  of  entertaining  it,  we  are  forced 
to  conclude  that  the  repulsive  influence  imagined,  will, 
finally,  under  pressure  of  the  uni-tendency  collectively 
applied,  but  never  and  in  no  degree  until,  on  fulfil 
ment  of  the  Divine  purposes,  such  collective  applica 
tion  shall  be  naturally  made,  yield  to  a  force  which, 
at  that  ultimate  epoch,  shall  be  the  superior  force 
precisely  to  the  extent  required,  and  thus  permit  the 
universal  subsidence  into  the  inevitable,  because 
original  and  therefore  normal,  one.  The  conditions 

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here  to  be  reconciled  are  difficult  indeed;  we  cannot 
even  comprehend  the  possibility  of  their  conciliation ; 
nevertheless,  the  apparent  impossibility  is  brilliantly 
suggestive. 

That  the  repulsive  something  actually  exists,  we  see. 
Man  neither  employs,  nor  knows  a  force  sufficient  to 
bring  two  atoms  into  contact.  This  is  but  the  well- 
established  proposition  of  the  impenetrability  of  matter. 
All  experiment  proves,  all  philosophy  admits  it.  The 
design  of  the  repulsion,  the  necessity  for  its  existence, 
I  have  endeavored  to  show,  but  from  all  attempt  at  in 
vestigating  its  nature  have  religiously  abstained, — this 
on  account  of  an  intuitive  conviction  that  the  prin 
ciple  at  issue  is  strictly  spiritual;  lies  in  a  recess  im 
pervious  to  our  present  understanding;  lies  involved 
in  a  consideration  of  what  now,  in  our  human  state ;  is 
not  to  be  considered  in  a  consideration  of  Spirit  in 
itself.  I  feel,  in  a  word,  that  here  the  God  has  inter 
posed,  and  here  only,  because  here  and  here  only  the 
knot  demanded  the  interposition  of  the  God. 

In  fact,  while  the  tendency  of  the  diffused  atoms  to 
return  into  unity  will  be  recognized  at  once  as  the 
principle  of  the  Newtonian  gravity,  what  I  have  spoken 
of  as  a  repulsive  influence  prescribing  limits  to  the 
(immediate)  satisfaction  of  the  tendency  will  be  un 
derstood  as  that  which  we  have  been  hi  the  practice 
of  designating  now  as  heat,  now  as  magnetism,  now 
as  electricity,  displaying  our  ignorance  of  its  awful 

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character  in  the  vacillation  of  the  phraseology  with 
which  we  endeavor  to  circumscribe  it. 

Calling  it,  merely  for  the  moment,  electricity,  we 
know  that  all  experimental  analysis  of  electricity  has 
given,  as  an  ultimate  result,  the  principle,  or  seeming 
principle,  heterogeneity.  Only  where  things  differ  is 
electricity  apparent;  and  it  is  presumable  that  they 
never  differ  where  it  is  not  developed  at  least,  if  not 
apparent.  Now,  this  result  is  in  the  fullest  keeping 
with  that  which  I  have  reached  unempirically.  The 
design  of  the  repulsive  influence  I  have  maintained  to 
be  that  of  preventing  immediate  unity  among  the  dif 
fused  atoms ;  and  these  atoms  are  represented  as  dif 
ferent  each  from  each.  Difference  is  their  character, 
their  essentiality,  just  as  no-difference  was  the  essen 
tiality  of  their  course.  When  we  say,  then,  that  an  at 
tempt  to  bring  any  two  of  these  atoms  together  would 
induce  an  effort,  on  the  part  of  the  repulsive  influence, 
to  prevent  the  contact,  we  may  as  well  use  the  strictly 
convertible  sentence  that  an  attempt  to  bring  together 
any  two  differences  will  result  in  a  development  of 
electricity.  All  existing  bodies,  of  course,  are  com 
posed  of  these  atoms  in  proximate  contact,  and  are 
therefore  to  be  considered  as  mere  assemblages  of  more 
or  fewer  differences;  and  the  resistance  made  by  the 
repulsive  spirit,  on  bringing  together  any  two  such 
assemblages,  would  be  in  the  ratio  of  the  two  sums  of 
the  differences  in  each,  an  expression  which,  when 

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reduced,  is  equivalent  to  this:  The  amount  of  elec 
tricity  developed  on  the  approximation  of  two  bodies  is 
proportional  to  the  difference  between  the  respective 
sums  of  the  atoms  of  which  the  bodies  are  composed. 
That  no  two  bodies  are  absolutely  alike  is  a  simple 
corollary  from  all  that  has  been  here  said.  Electricity, 
therefore,  existing  always,  is  developed  whenever  any 
bodies,  but  manifested  only  when  bodies  of  appreciable 
difference,  are  brought  into  approximation. 

To  electricity — so,  for  the  present,  continuing  to  call 
it — we  may  not  be  wrong  in  referring  the  various 
physical  appearances  of  light,  heat,  and  magnetism; 
but  far  less  shall  we  be  liable  to  err  in  attributing  to 
this  strictly  spiritual  principle  the  more  important  phe 
nomena  of  vitality,  consciousness,  and  thought.  On 
this  topic,  however,  I  need  pause  here  merely  to  sug 
gest  that  these  phenomena,  whether  observed  gener 
ally  or  in  detail,  seem  to  proceed  at  least  hi  the  ratio 
of  the  heterogeneous. 

Discarding,  now,  the  two  equivocal  terms  "  gravita 
tion  "  and  "  electricity,"  let  us  adopt  the  more  definite 
expressions  "  attraction  "  and  "  repulsion."  The  for 
mer  is  the  body,  the  latter  the  soul;  the  one  is  the 
material,  the  other  the  spiritual,  principle  of  the  uni 
verse.  No  other  principles  exist.  All  phenomena  are 
referable  to  one  or  to  the  other,  or  to  both  combined. 
So  rigorously  is  this  the  case,  so  thoroughly  demon 
strable  is  it  that  attraction  and  repulsion  are  the  sole 

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properties  through  which  we  perceive  the  universe,  in 
other  words,  by  which  matter  is  manifested  to  mind, 
that,  for  all  merely  argumentative  purposes,  we  are 
fully  justified  in  assuming  that  matter  exists  only  as 
attraction  and  repulsion — that  attraction  and  repul 
sion  are  matter,  there  being  no  conceivable  case  in 
which  we  may  not  employ  the  term  "  matter,"  and  the 
terms  "  attraction  "  and  "  repulsion,"  taken  together, 
as  equivalent,  and  therefore  convertible,  expressions  in 
logic. 

I  said,  just  now,  that  what  I  have  described  as  the 
tendency  of  the  diffused  atoms  to  return  into  their 
original  unity  would  be  understood  as  the  principle  of 
the  Newtonian  law  of  gravity;  and,  in  fact,  there  can 
be  but  little  difficulty  in  such  an  understanding,  if  we 
look  at  the  Newtonian  gravity  in  a  merely  general 
view,  as  a  force  impelling  matter  to  seek  matter ;  that 
is  to  say,  when  we  pay  no  attention  to  the  known 
modus  operand!  of  the  Newtonian  force.  The  general 
coincidence  satisfies  us ;  but,  upon  looking  closely,  we 
see  in  detail  much  that  appears  in  coincident,  and 
much  in  regard  to  which  no  coincidence,  at  least,  is 
established.  For  example:  the  Newtonian  gravity, 
when  we  think  of  it  in  certain  moods,  does  not  seem 
to  be  a  tendency  to  oneness  at  all,  but  rather  a  ten 
dency  of  all  bodies  in  all  directions — a  phrase  appar 
ently  expressive  of  a  tendency  to  diffusion.  Here, 
then,  is  an  /^coincidence.  Again;  when  we  reflect 

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on  the  mathematical  law  governing  the  Newtonian 
tendency,  we  see  clearly  that  no  coincidence  has  been 
made  good,  in  respect  of  the  modus  operand*',  at 
least,  between  gravitation  as  known  to  exist  and  that 
seemingly  simple  and  direct  tendency  which  I  have 
assumed. 

In  fact,  I  have  attained  a  point  at  which  it  will  be 
advisable  to  strengthen  my  position  by  reversing  my 
processes.  So  far,  we  have  gone  on  a  priori,  from  an 
abstract  consideration  of  simplicity,  as  that  quality 
most  likely  to  have  characterized  the  original  action 
of  God.  Let  us  now  see  whether  the  established  facts 
of  the  Newtonian  gravitation  may  not  afford  us,  a 
posteriory  some  legitimate  inductions. 

What  does  the  Newtonian  law  declare  ?  That  all 
bodies  attract  each  other  with  forces  proportional  to 
the  squares  of  their  distances.  Purposely,  I  have  given, 
in  the  first  place,  the  vulgar  version  of  the  law;  and  I 
confess  that  in  this,  as  in  most  other  vulgar  versions  of 
great  truths,  we  find  little  of  a  suggestive  character. 
Let  us  now  adopt  a  more  philosophical  phraseology: 
Every  atom,  of  every  body,  attracts  every  other  atom, 
both  of  its  own  and  of  every  other  body,  with  a  force 
which  varies  inversely  as  the  squares  of  the  distances 
.between  the  attracting  and  attracted  atom.  Here,  in 
deed,  a  flood  of  suggestion  bursts  upon  the  mind. 

But  let  us  see  distinctly  what  it  was  that  Newton 
proved,  according  to  the  grossly  irrational  definitions 

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of  proof  prescribed  by  the  metaphysical  schools.  He 
was  forced  to  content  himself  with  showing  how 
thoroughly  the  motions  of  an  imaginary  universe,  com 
posed  of  attracting  and  attracted  atoms  obedient  to  the 
law  he  announced,  coincide  with  those  of  the  actually 
existing  universe  so  far  as  it  comes  under  our  observa 
tion.  This  was  the  amount  of  his  demonstration,  that 
is  to  say,  this  was  the  amount  of  it,  according  to  the 
conventional  cant  of  the  "  philosophies."  His  suc 
cesses  added  proof  multiplied  by  proof,  such  proof  as  a 
sound  intellect  admits;  but  the  demonstration  of  the 
law  itself,  persist  the  metaphysicians,  had  not  been 
strengthened  in  any  degree.  "  Ocular  physical  proof," 
however,  of  attraction,  here  upon  earth,  in  accord 
ance  with  the  Newtonian  theory,  was,  at  length,  much 
to  the  satisfaction  of  some  intellectual  grovellers, 
afforded.  This  proof  arose  collaterally  and  incident 
ally  (as  nearly  all  important  truths  have  arisen)  out 
of  an  attempt  to  ascertain  the  mean  density  of  the 
earth.  In  the  famous  Maskelyne,  Cavendish,  and 
Bailly  experiments  for  this  purpose,  the  attraction  of 
the  mass  of  a  mountain  was  seen,  felt,  measured,  and 
found  to  be  mathematically  consistent  with  the  im 
mortal  theory  of  the  British  astronomer. 

But  in  spite  of  this  confirmation  of  that  which 
needed  none,  in  spite  of  the  so-called  corroboration  of 
the  "  theory  "  by  the  so-called  "  ocular  and  physical 
proof,"  in  spite  of  the  character  of  this  corroboration, 

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the  ideas  which  even  really  philosophical  men  cannot 
help  imbibing  of  gravity,  and,  especially,  the  ideas  of 
it  which  ordinary  men  get  and  contentedly  maintain, 
are  seen  to  have  been  derived,  for  the  most  part,  from 
a  consideration  of  the  principle  as  they  find  it  devel 
oped,  merely  in  the  planet  upon  which  they  stand. 

Now,  to  what  does  so  partial  a  consideration  tend, 
to  what  species  of  error  does  it  give  rise  ?  On  the 
earth  we  see  and  feel  only  that  gravity  impels  all 
bodies  toward  the  centre  of  the  earth.  No  man  in  the 
common  walks  of  life  could  be  made  to  see  or  feel  any 
thing  else, — could  be  made  to  perceive  that  anything, 
anywhere,  has  a  perpetual  gravitating  tendency  in  any 
other  direction  than  to  the  centre  of  the  earth;  yet 
(with  an  exception  hereafter  to  be  specified)  it  is  a 
fact  that  every  earthly  thing  (not  to  speak  now  of  every 
heavenly  thing)  has  a  tendency  not  only  to  the  earth's 
centre,  but  in  every  conceivable  direction  besides. 

Now,  although  the  philosophic  cannot  be  said  to  err 
with  the  vulgar  in  this  matter,  they  nevertheless  per 
mit  themselves  to  be  influenced,  without  knowing  it, 
by  the  sentiment  of  the  vulgar  idea.  "  Although  the 
pagan  fables  are  not  believed,"  says  Bryant,  in  his  very 
erudite  Mythologyt  "  yet  we  forget  ourselves  continu 
ally  and  make  inferences  from  them  as  from  existing 
realities."  I  mean  to  assert  that  the  merely  sensitive 
perception  of  gravity  as  we  experience  it  upon  earth 
beguiles  mankind  into  the  fancy  of  concentralization 

VOL.  X.— 14.  20 


Eureka 

or  especially  respecting  it,  has  been  continually  bias 
ing  toward  this  fancy  even  the  mightiest  intellects, 
perpetually,  although  imperceptibly,  leading  them 
away  from  the  real  characteristics  of  the  principle, 
thus  preventing  them,  up  to  this  date,  from  ever  get 
ting  a  glimpse  of  that  vital  truth  which  lies  in  a  dia 
metrically  opposite  direction,  behind  the  principle's 
essential  characteristics, — those  not  of  concentraliza- 
tion  or  especiality,  but  of  universality  and  diffusion. 
This  "  vital  truth  "  is  unity  as  the  source  of  the  phe 
nomenon. 

Let  me  now  repeat  the  definition  of  gravity :  Every 
atom,  of  every  body,  attracts  every  other  atom,  both 
of  its  own  and  of  every  other  body,  with  a  force  which 
varies  inversely  as  the  squares  of  the  distances  of  the 
attracting  and  attracted  atom. 

Here  let  the  reader  pause  with  me,  for  a  moment,  in 
contemplation  of  the  miraculous,  of  the  ineffable,  of 
the  altogether  unimaginable,  complexity  of  relation 
involved  hi  the  fact  that  each  atom  attracts  every 
other  atom ;  involved  merely  hi  this  fact  of  the  attrac 
tion,  without  reference  to  the  law  or  mode  in  which 
the  attraction  is  manifested;  involved  merely  in  the 
fact  that  each  atom  attracts  every  other  atom  at  all,  in 
a  wilderness  of  atoms  so  numerous  that  those  which 
go  to  the  composition  of  a  cannon-ball  exceed,  prob 
ably,  in  mere  point  of  number,  all  the  stars  which  go 
to  the  constitution  of  the  universe. 

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Had  we  discovered,  simply,  that  each  atom  tended 
to  some  one  favorite  point,  to  some  especially  attrac 
tive  atom,  we  should  still  have  fallen  upon  a  discovery 
which,  in  itself,  would  have  sufficed  to  overwhelm  the 
mind ;  but  what  is  it  that  we  are  actually  called  upon 
to  comprehend?  That  each  atom  attracts,  sympa 
thizes  with  the  most  delicate  movements  of  every  other 
atom,  and  with  each  and  with  all  at  the  same  time 
and  forever,  and  according  to  a  determinate  law  of 
which  the  complexity,  even  considered  by  itself  solely, 
is  utterly  beyond  the  grasp  of  the  imagination  of  man. 
If  I  propose  to  ascertain  the  influence  of  one  mote  in 
a  sunbeam  upon  its  neighboring  mote,  I  cannot  accom 
plish  my  purpose  without  first  counting  and  weighing 
all  the  atoms  in  the  universe  and  defining  the  precise 
positions  of  all  at  one  particular  moment.  If  I  ven 
ture  to  displace,  by  even  the  billionth  part  of  an  inch, 
the  microscopical  speck  of  dust  which  lies  now  upon 
the  point  of  my  finger,  what  is  the  character  of  that 
act  upon  which  I  have  adventured  ?  I  have  done  a 
deed  which  shakes  the  moon  in  her  path,  which  causes 
the  sun  to  be  no  longer  the  sun,  and  which  alters  for 
ever  the  destiny  of  the  multitudinous  myriads  of  stars 
that  roll  and  glow  in  the  majestic  presence  of  their 
Creator. 

These  ideas,  conceptions  such  as  these,  unthought- 
like  thoughts,  soul-reveries  rather  than  conclusions,  or 
even  considerations  of  the  intellect, — ideas,  I  repeat, 

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such  as  these,  are  such  as  we  can  alone  hope  profit 
ably  to  entertain  in  any  effort  at  grasping  the  great 
principle,  attraction. 

But  now,  with  such  ideas,  with  such  a  vision  of  the 
marvellous  complexity  of  attraction  fairly  in  his  mind, 
let  any  person  competent  of  thought  on  such  topics  as 
these  set  himself  to  the  task  of  imagining  a  principle 
for  the  phenomena  observed,  a  condition  from  which 
they  sprang. 

Does  not  so  evident  a  brotherhood  among  the  atoms 
point  to  a  common  parentage  ?  Does  not  a  sym 
pathy  so  omniprevalent,  so  ineradicable,  and  so  thor 
oughly  irrespective,  suggest  a  common  paternity  as  its 
source  ?  Does  not  one  extreme  impel  the  reason  to 
the  other  ?  Does  not  the  infinitude  of  division  refer 
to  the  utterness  of  individuality  ?  Does  not  the  en- 
tireness  of  the  complex  hint  at  the  perfection  of  the 
simple  ?  It  is  not  that  the  atoms,  as  we  see  them,  are 
divided  or  that  they  are  complex  in  their  relations,  but 
that  they  are  inconceivably  divided  and  unutterably 
complex;  it  is  the  extremeness  of  the  conditions  to 
which  I  now  allude,  rather  than  to  the  conditions 
themselves.  In  a  word,  is  it  not  because  the  atoms 
were,  at  some  remote  epoch  of  time,  even  more  than 
together;  is  it  not  because  originally,  and  therefore 
normally,  they  were  one, — that  now,  in  all  circum 
stances,  at  all  points,  in  all  directions,  by  all  modes  of 
approach,  in  all  relations  and  through  all  conditions, 

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they  struggle  back  to  this  absolutely,  this  irrelatively, 
this  unconditionally  one  ? 

Some  person  may  here  demand :  "  Why,  since  it  is 
to  the  one  that  the  atoms  struggle  back,  do  we  not 
find  and  define  attraction  *  a  merely  general  tendency 
to  a  centre '  ? — why,  in  especial,  do  not  your  atoms, 
the  atoms  which  you  describe  as  having  been  irradi 
ated  from  a  centre,  proceed  at  once,  rectilinearly,  back 
to  the  central  point  of  their  origin  ?  " 

I  reply  that  they  do,  as  will  be  distinctly  shown ;  but 
that  the  cause  of  their  so  doing  is  quite  irrespective  of 
the  centre  as  such.  They  all  tend  rectilinearly  toward 
a  centre,  because  of  the  sphericity  with  which  they 
have  been  irradiated  into  space.  Each  atom,  forming 
one  of  a  generally  uniform  globe  of  atoms,  finds  more 
atoms  in  the  direction  of  the  centre,  of  course,  than  in 
any  other,  and  in  that  direction,  therefore,  is  impelled, 
but  is  not  thus  impelled  because  the  centre  is  the  point 
of  its  origin.  It  is  not  to  any  point  that  the  atoms  are 
allied.  It  is  not  any  locality,  either  in  the  concrete  or 
in  the  abstract,  to  which  I  suppose  them  bound.  Noth 
ing  like  location  was  conceived  as  their  origin.  Their 
source  lies  in  the  principle,  unity.  This  is  their  lost 
parent.  This  they  seek  always,  immediately,  in  all 
directions,  wherever  it  is  even  partially  to  be  found; 
thus  appeasing,  in  some  measure,  the  ineradicable  ten 
dency,  while  on  the  way  to  its  absolute  satisfaction  in 
the  end.  It  follows,  from  all  this,  that  any  principle 

213 


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which  shall  be  adequate  to  account  for  the  law,  or 
modus  operand^  of  the  attractive  force  in  general,  will 
account  for  this  law  in  particular ;  that  is  to  say,  any 
principle  which  will  show  why  the  atoms  should  tend 
to  their  general  centre  of  irradiation  with  forces  in 
versely  proportioned  to  the  squares  of  the  distances  will 
be  admitted  as  satisfactorily  accounting,  at  the  same 
time,  for  the  tendency,  according  to  the  same  law,  of 
these  atoms  each  to  each;  for  the  tendency  to  the 
centre  is  merely  the  tendency  each  to  each,  and  not 
any  tendency  to  a  centre  as  such.  Thus  it  will  be 
seen,  also,  that  the  establishment  of  my  propositions 
would  involve  no  necessity  of  modification  in  the  terms 
of  the  Newtonian  definition  of  gravity,  which  declares 
that  each  atom  attracts  each  other  atom,  and  so  forth, 
and  declares  this  merely;  but  (always  under  the  sup 
position  that  what  I  propose  be,  in  the  end,  admitted) 
it  seems  clear  that  some  error  might  occasionally  be 
avoided,  in  the  future  processes  of  science,  were  a 
more  ample  phraseology  adopted ;  for  instance,  "  Each 
atom  tends  to  every  other  atom,  etc.,  with  a  force,  etc., 
the  general  result  being  a  tendency  of  all,  with  a  simi 
lar  force,  to  a  general  centre." 

The  reversal  of  our  processes  has  thus  brought  us  to 
an  identical  result;  but  while  in  the  one  process  in 
tuition  was  the  starting-point,  in  the  other  it  was  the 
goal.  In  commencing  the  former  journey  I  could  only 
say  that,  with  an  irresistible  intuition,  I  felt  simplicity 

214 


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to  have  been  made  the  characteristic  of  the  original 
action  of  God ;  in  ending  the  latter,  I  can  only  declare 
that,  with  an  irresistible  intuition,  I  perceive  unity  to 
have  been  the  source  of  the  observed  phenomena  of 
the  Newtonian  gravitation.  Thus,  according  to  the 
schools,  I  prove  nothing.  So  be  it;  I  design  but  to 
suggest,  and  to  convince  through  the  suggestion.  I 
am  proudly  aware  that  there  exist  many  of  the  most 
profound  and  cautiously  discriminative  human  intel 
lects  which  cannot  help  being  abundantly  content  with 
my — suggestions.  To  these  intellects,  as  to  my  own, 
there  is  no  mathematical  demonstration  which  could 
bring  the  least  additional  true  proof  of  the  great  truth 
which  I  have  advanced — the  truth  of  original  unity  as 
the  source,  as  the  principle,  of  the  universal  phenom 
ena.  For  my  part  I  am  not  sure  that  I  speak  and  see, 
I  am  not  so  sure  that  my  heart  beats  and  that  my  soul 
lives ;  of  the  rising  of  to-morrow's  sun — a  probability 
that  as  yet  lies  in  the  future — I  do  not  pretend  to  be 
one  thousandth  part  as  sure  as  I  am  of  the  irretrievably 
bygone  fact  that  all  things  and  all  thoughts  of  things, 
with  all  their  ineffable  multiplicity  of  relation,  sprang 
at  once  into  being  from  the  primordial  and  irrelative 
one. 

Referring  to  the  Newtonian  gravity,  Dr.  Nichol,  the 
eloquent  author  of  The  Architecture  of  the  Heavens, 
says :  "  In  truth  we  have  no  reason  to  suppose  this 
great  law,  as  now  revealed,  to  be  the  ultimate  or 

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simplest,  and  therefore  the  universal  and  all-compre 
hensive,  form  of  a  great  ordinance.  The  mode  in 
which  its  intensity  diminishes  with  the  element  of  dis 
tance  has  not  the  aspect  of  an  ultimate  principle ;  which 
always  assumes  the  simplicity  and  self-evidence  of 
those  axioms  which  constitute  the  basis  of  geometry." 

Now,  it  is  quite  true  that  "  ultimate  principles,"  in 
the  common  understanding  of  the  words,  always 
assume  the  simplicity  of  geometrical  axioms  (as  for 
"  self  -evidence,"  there  is  no  such  thing),  but  these 
principles  are  clearly  not  "  ultimate  " ;  in  other  terms, 
what  we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  principles  are  no 
principles,  properly  speaking,  since  there  can  be  but 
one  principle,  the  volition  of  God.  We  have  no  right 
to  assume,  then,  from  what  we  observe  in  rules  that 
we  choose  foolishly  to  name  "  principles,"  anything  at 
all  in  respect  to  the  characteristics  of  a  principle  proper. 
The  "  ultimate  principles,"  of  which  Dr.  Nichol  speaks 
as  having  geometrical  simplicity,  may  and  do  have 
this  geometrical  turn,  as  being  part  and  parcel  of  a 
vast  geometrical  system,  and  thus  a  system  of  sim 
plicity  itself,  in  which,  nevertheless,  the  truly  ultimate 
principle  is,  as  we  know,  the  consummation  of  the 
complex,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  unintelligible,  for  is  it 
not  the  spiritual  capacity  of  God  ? 

I  quoted  Dr.  Nichol's  remark,  however,  not  so  much 
to  question  its  philosophy  as  by  way  of  calling  atten 
tion  to  the  fact  that  while  all  men  have  admitted  some 

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principle  as  existing  behind  the  law  of  gravity,  no 
attempt  has  been  yet  made  to  point  out  what  this  prin 
ciple  in  particular  is,  if  we  except,  perhaps,  occasional 
fantastic  efforts  at  referring  it  to  magnetism,  or  mes 
merism,  or  Swedenborgianism,  or  transcendentalism,  or 
some  other  equally  delicious  "  ism"  of  the  same  species, 
and  invariably  patronized  by  one  and  the  same  species 
of  people.  The  great  mind  of  Newton,  while  boldly 
grasping  the  law  itself,  shrank  from  the  principle  of 
the  law.  The  more  fluent  and  comprehensive,  at  least, 
if  not  the  more  patient  and  profound  sagacity  of  La 
place  had  not  the  courage  to  attack  it.  But  hesitation 
on  the  part  of  these  two  astronomers  it  is,  perhaps, 
not  so  very  difficult  to  understand.  They,  as  well  as 
all  the  first  class  of  mathematicians,  were  mathema 
ticians  solely ;  their  intellect  at  least  had  a  firmly  pro 
nounced  mathematico-physical  tone.  What  lay  not 
distinctly  within  the  domain  of  physics  or  of  mathe 
matics  seemed  to  them  either  non-entity  or  shadow. 
Nevertheless,  we  may  well  wonder  that  Leibnitz,  who 
was  a  marked  exception  to  the  general  rule  in  these 
respects,  and  whose  mental  temperament  was  a  singu 
lar  admixture  of  the  mathematical  with  the  physico- 
metaphysical,  did  not  at  once  investigate  and  establish 
the  point  at  issue.  Either  Newton  or  Laplace,  seeking 
a  principle  and  discovering  none  physical,  would  have 
rested  contentedly  in  the  conclusion  that  there  was 
absolutely  none;  but  it  is  almost  impossible  to  fancy 

217 


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of  Leibnitz  that,  having  exhausted  in  his  search  the 
physical  dominions,  he  would  not  have  stepped  at  once, 
boldly  and  hopefully,  amid  his  old  familiar  haunts  in 
the  kingdom  of  metaphysics.  Here,  indeed,  it  is  clear 
that  he  must  have  adventured  in  search  of  the  treasure ; 
that  he  did  not  find  it  after  all,  was,  perhaps,  because 
his  fairy  guide,  Imagination,  was  not  sufficiently  well 
grown,  or  well  educated,  to  direct  him  aright. 

I  observed  just  now  that,  in  fact,  there  had  been 
certain  vague  attempts  at  referring  gravity  to  some 
very  uncertain  "  isms."  These  attempts,  however, 
although  considered  bold,  and  justly  so  considered, 
looked  no  further  than  to  the  generality,  the  merest 
generality,  of  the  Newtonian  law.  Its  modus  operand! 
has  never,  to  my  knowledge,  been  approached  in  the 
way  of  an  effort  at  explanation.  It  is,  therefore,  with 
no  unwarrantable  fear  of  being  taken  for  a  madman 
at  the  outset,  and  before  I  can  bring  my  propositions 
fairly  to  the  eye  of  those  who  alone  are  competent  to 
decide  upon  them,  that  I  here  declare  the  modus  oper* 
andi  of  the  law  of  gravity  to  be  an  exceedingly  simple 
and  perfectly  explicable  thing,  that  is  to  say,  when  we 
make  our  advances  toward  it  in  just  gradations  and 
in  the  true  direction;  when  we  regard  it  from  the 
proper  point  of  view. 

Whether  we  reach  the  idea  of  absolute  unity  as  the 
source  of  all  things,  from  a  consideration  of  simplicity 
as  the  most  probable  characteristic  of  the  original 

218 


Eureka 

action  of  God;  whether  we  arrive  at  it  from  an  in 
spection  of  the  universality  of  the  relation  in  the 
gravitating  phenomena,  or  whether  we  attain  it  as  a 
result  of  the  mutual  corroboration  afforded  by  both 
processes,  still,  the  idea  itself,  if  entertained  at  all,  is 
entertained  in  inseparable  connection  with  another 
idea,  that  of  the  condition  of  the  universe  of  stars  as  we 
now  perceive  it,  that  is  to  say,  a  condition  of  immeasur 
able  diffusion  through  space.  Now,  a  connection 
between  these  two  ideas,  unity  and  diffusion,  can 
not  be  established  unless  through  the  entertainment 
of  a  third  idea,  that  of  irradiation.  Absolute  unity 
being  taken  as  a  centre,  then  the  existing  universe  of 
stars  is  the  result  of  irradiation  from  that  centre. 

Now,  the  laws  of  irradiation  are  known.  They  are 
part  and  parcel  of  the  sphere.  They  belong  to  the 
class  of  indisputable  geometrical  properties.  We  say 
of  them,  "  They  are  true,  they  are  evident."  To  de 
mand  why  they  are  true  would  be  to  demand  why  the 
axioms  are  true  upon  which  their  demonstration  is 
based.  Nothing  is  demonstrable,  strictly  speaking; 
but  if  anything  be,  then  the  properties,  the  laws  in 
question,  are  demonstrated. 

But  these  laws,  what  do  they  declare  ?  Irradiation 
— how?  by  what  steps  does  it  proceed  outwardly  from 
a  centre  ? 

From  a  luminous  centre  light  issues  by  irradiation ; 
and  the  quantities  of  light  received  upon  any  given 

219 


Eureka 

plane,  supposed  to  be  shifting  its  position  so  as  to  be 
now  nearer  the  centre  and  now  farther  from  it,  will  be 


diminished  in  the  same  proportion  as  the  squares  of 
the  distances  of  the  plane  from  the  luminous  body  are 
increased;  and  will  be  increased  in  the  same  propor 
tion  as  these  squares  are  diminished. 

The  expression  of  the  law  may  be  thus  generalized : 
the  number  of  light-particles  (or,  if  the  phrase  be  pre 
ferred,  the  number  of  light-impressions)  received  upon 
the  shifting  plane  will  be  inversely  proportional  with 
the  squares  of  the  distances  of  the  plane.  Generalizing 
yet  again,  we  may  say  that  the  diffusion,  the  scatter 
ing,  the  irradiation,  in  a  word,  is  directly  propor 
tional  with  the  squares  of  the  distances. 

For  example :  at  the  distance  B,  from  the  luminous 
centre  A,  a  certain  number  of  particles  are  so  diffused 
as  to  occupy  the  surface  B.  Then  at  double  the  dis 
tance,  that  is  to  say,  at  C,  they  will  be  so  much  farther 
diffused  as  to  occupy  four  such  surfaces;  at  treble  the 
distance,  or  at  D,  they  will  be  so  much  farther  sep- 


220 


Eureka 

arated  as  to  occupy  nine  such  surfaces;  while,  at 
quadruple  the  distance,  or  at  E,  they  will  have  become 
so  scattered  as  to  spread  themselves  over  sixteen  such 
surfaces,  and  so  on  forever. 

In  saying,  generally,  that  the  irradiation  proceeds  in 
direct  proportion  with  the  squares  of  the  distances,  we 
use  the  term  "  irradiation  "  to  express  the  degree  of  the 
diffusion  as  we  proceed  outwardly  from  the  centre. 
Conversing  the  idea,  and  employing  the  word  "  con- 
centralization  "  to  express  the  degree  of  the  drawing 
together  as  we  come  back  toward  the  centre  from  an 
outward  position,  we  may  say  that  concentralization 
proceeds  inversely  as  the  squares  of  the  distances.  In 
other  words,  we  have  reached  the  conclusion  that,  on 
the  hypothesis  that  matter  was  originally  irradiated 
from  a  centre  and  is  now  returning  to  it,  the  concen 
tralization,  in  the  return,  proceeds  exactly  as  we  know 
the  force  of  gravitation  to  proceed. 

Now  here,  if  we  could  be  permitted  to  assume  that 
concentralization  exactly  represented  the  force  of  the 
tendency  to  the  centre,  that  the  one  was  exactly  pro 
portional  to  the  other,  and  that  the  two  proceeded 
together,  we  should  have  shown  all  that  is  required. 
The  sole  difficulty  existing,  then,  is  to  establish  a  direct 
proportion  between  concentralization  and  the  force 
of  concentralization;  and  this  is  done,  of  course,  if 
we  establish  such  proportions  between  irradiation  and 
the  force  of  irradiation. 

221 


Eureka 

A  very  slight  inspection  of  the  heavens  assures  us 
that  the  stars  have  a  certain  general  uniformity,  equa 
bility,  or  equidistance  of  distribution  through  that  re 
gion  of  space  in  which,  collectively,  and  in  a  roughly 
globular  form,  they  are  situated;  this  species  of  very 
general,  rather  than  absolute,  equability  being  in  full 
keeping  with  my  deduction  of  inequidistance,  within 
certain  limits,  among  the  originally  diffused  atoms,  as 
a  corollary  from  the  evident  design  of  infinite  com 
plexity  of  relation  out  of  irrelation.  I  started,  it  will 
be  remembered,  with  the  idea  of  a  generally  uniform 
but  particularly  ununiform  distribution  of  the  atoms, 
— an  idea,  I  repeat,  which  an  inspection  of  the  stars, 
as  they  exist,  confirms. 

But  even  in  the  merely  general  equability  of  distribu 
tion,  as  regards  the  atoms,  there  appears  a  difficulty 
which,  no  doubt,  has  already  suggested  itself  to  those 
among  my  readers  who  have  borne  in  mind  that  I 
suppose  this  equability  of  distribution  effected  through 
irradiation  from  a  centre.  The  very  first  glance  at  the 
idea,  irradiation,  forces  us  to  the  entertainment  of  the 
hitherto  unseparated  and  seemingly  inseparable  idea  of 
agglomeration  about  a  centre,  with  dispersion  as  we 
recede  from  it, — the  idea,  in  a  word,  of  inequability  of 
distribution  in  respect  to  the  matter  irradiated. 

Now,  I  have  elsewhere x  observed  that  it  is  by  just 
such  difficulties  as  the  one  now  in  question, — such 

1  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue, 

222 


Eureka 

roughnesses,  such  peculiarities,  such  protuberances 
above  the  plane  of  the  ordinary,  that  Reason  feels  her 
way,  if  at  all,  in  her  search  for  the  true.  By  the  diffi 
culty,  the  "  peculiarity,"  now  presented,  I  leap  at  once 
to  the  secret — a  secret  which  I  might  never  have  at 
tained  but  for  the  peculiarity  and  the  inferences  which, 
in  its  mere  character  of  peculiarity,  it  affords  me. 

The  process  of  thought,  at  this  point,  may  be  thus 
roughly  sketched.  I  say  to  myself :  "  Unity,  as  I  have 
explained  it,  is  a  truth ;  I  feel  it.  Diffusion  is  a  truth ; 
I  see  it.  Irradiation,  by  which  alone  these  two  truths 
are  reconciled,  is  a  consequent  truth;  I  perceive  it. 
Equability  of  diffusion,  first  deduced  a  priori  and 
then  corroborated  by  the  inspection  of  phenomena,  is 
also  a  truth;  I  fully  admit  it.  So  far  all  is  clear 
around  me;  there  are  no  clouds  behind  which  the 
secret — the  great  secret  of  the  gravitating  modus  oper* 
andi — can  possibly  lie  hidden;  but  this  secret  lies 
hereabouts,  most  assuredly;  and  were  there  but  a 
cloud  in  view  I  should  be  driven  to  suspicion  of  that 
cloud."  And  now,  just  as  I  say  this,  there  actually 
comes  a  cloud  into  view.  This  cloud  is  the  seeming 
impossibility  of  reconciling  my  truth,  irradiation,  with 
my  truth,  equability  of  diffusion.  I  say  now :  "  Be 
hind  this  seeming  impossibility  is  to  be  found  what 
I  desire."  I  do  not  say  "  real  impossibility  " ;  for 
invincible  faith  in  my  truths  assures  me  that  it  is  a 
mere  difficulty  after  all;  but  I  go  on  to  say,  with 

223 


Eureka 

unflinching  confidence,  that,  when  this  difficulty  shall 
be  solved,  we  shall  find,  wrapped  up  in  the  process  of 
solution,  the  key  to  the  secret  at  which  we  aim.  More 
over,  I  feel  that  we  shall  discover  but  one  possible 
solution  of  the  difficulty ;  this  for  the  reason  that,  were 
there  two,  one  would  be  supererogatory,  would  be 
fruitless,  would  be  empty,  would  contain  no  key,  since 
no  duplicate  key  can  be  needed  to  any  secret  of  nature. 
And  now,  let  us  see :  Our  usual  notions  of  irradia 
tion,  in  fact,  all  our  distinct  notions  of  it,  are  caught 
merely  from  the  process  as  we  see  it  exemplified  in 
light.  Here  there  is  a  continuous  outpouring  of  ray- 
streams,  and  with  a  force  which  we  have  at  least  no 
right  to  suppose  ever  varies  at  all.  Now,  in  any  such 
irradiation  as  this,  continuous  and  of  unvarying  force, 
the  regions  nearer  the  centre  must  inevitably  be  always 
more  crowded  with  the  irradiated  matter  than  the 
regions  more  remote.  But  I  have  assumed  no  such 
irradiation  as  this.  I  assumed  no  continuous  irra 
diation  ;  and  for  the  simple  reason  that  such  an  as 
sumption  would  have  involved,  first,  the  necessity  of 
entertaining  a  conception  which  I  have  shown  no  man 
can  entertain,  and  which  (as  I  will  more  fully  explain 
hereafter)  all  observation  of  the  firmament  refutes — 
the  conception  of  the  absolute  infinity  of  the  universe 
of  stars;  and  would  have  involved,  secondly,  the  im 
possibility  of  understanding  a  reaction,  that  is,  gravi 
tation,  as  existing  now,  since,  while  an  act  is  continued, 

224 


Eureka 

no  reaction,  of  course,  can  take  place.  My  assump 
tion,  then,  or  rather  my  inevitable  deduction  from  just 
premises,  was  that  of  a  determinate  irradiation,  one 
finally  discontinued. 

Let  me  now  describe  the  sole  possible  mode  in  which 
it  is  conceivable  that  matter  could  have  been  diffused 
through  space,  so  as  to  fulfil  the  conditions  at  once  of 
irradiation  and  of  generally  equable  distribution. 

For  convenience  of  illustration,  let  us  imagine,  in 
the  first  place,  a  hollow  sphere  of  glass,  or  anything 
else,  occupying  the  space  throughout  which  the  uni 
versal  matter  is  to  be  thus  equally  diffused,  by  means 
of  irradiation,  from  the  absolute,  irrelative,  uncon 
ditional  particle,  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  sphere. 

Now,  a  certain  exertion  of  the  diffusive  power  (pre 
sumed  to  be  the  Divine  Volition) — in  other  words,  a 
certain  force,  whose  measure  is  the  quantity  of  mat 
ter,  that  is  to  say,  the  number  of  atoms  emitted — 
emits,  by  irradiation,  this  certain  number  of  atoms; 
forcing  them  in  all  directions  outwardly  from  the 
centre,  their  proximity  to  each  other  diminishing  as 
they  proceed,  until,  finally,  they  are  distributed,  loosely, 
over  the  interior  surface  of  the  sphere. 

When  these  atoms  have  attained  this  position,  or 
while  proceeding  to  attain  it,  a  second  and  inferior 
exercise  of  the  same  force,  or  a  second  and  inferior 
force  of  the  same  character,  emits,  in  the  same  man 
ner,  that  is  to  say,  by  irradiation  as  before,  a  second 

VOL.  X.— 15.  225 


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stratum  of  atoms  which  proceeds  to  deposit  itself  upon 
the  first ;  the  number  of  atoms,  in  this  case  as  in  the 
former,  being,  of  course,  the  measure  of  the  force 
which  emitted  them;  in  other  words,  the  force  being 
precisely  adapted  to  the  purpose  it  effects, — the  force, 
and  the  number  of  atoms  sent  out  by  the  force,  being 
directly  proportional. 

When  this  second  stratum  has  reached  its  destined 
position,  or  while  approaching  it,  a  third  still  inferior 
exertion  of  the  force,  or  a  third  inferior  force  of  a  simi 
lar  character — the  number  of  atoms  emitted  being  in 
all  cases  the  measure  of  the  force — proceeds  to  deposit 
a  third  stratum  upon  the  second ;  and  so  on,  until  these 
concentric  strata,  growing  gradually  less  and  less, 
come  down  at  length  to  the  central  point;  and  the 
diffusive  matter,  simultaneously  with  the  diffusive 
force,  is  exhausted. 

We  have  now  the  sphere  filled,  through  means  of 
irradiation,  with  atoms  equably  diffused.  The  two 
necessary  conditions,  those  of  irradiation  and  of 
equable  diffusion,  are  satisfied,  and  by  the  sole  pro 
cess  in  which  the  possibility  of  their  simultaneous 
satisfaction  is  conceivable.  For  this  reason,  I  confi 
dently  expect  to  find,  lurking  in  the  present  condition 
of  the  atoms  as  distributed  throughout  the  sphere, 
the  secret  of  which  I  am  in  search — the  all-important 
principle  of  the  modus  opetandi  of  the  Newtonian  law. 
Let  us  examine,  then,  the  actual  condition  of  the  atoms. 

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They  lie  in  a  state  of  concentric  strata.  They  are 
equably  diffused  throughout  the  sphere.  They  have 
been  irradiated  into  these  states. 

The  atoms  being  equably  distributed,  the  greater 
the  superficial  extent  of  any  of  these  concentric  strata, 
or  spheres,  the  more  atoms  will  lie  upon  it.  In  other 
words,  the  number  of  atoms  lying  upon  the  surface  of 
any  one  of  the  concentric  spheres  is  directly  propor 
tional  with  the  extent  of  that  surface. 

But  in  any  series  of  concentric  spheres  the  surfaces 
are  directly  proportional  with  the  squares  of  the  dis 
tances  from  the  centre.1 

Therefore  the  number  of  atoms  in  any  stratum  is 
directly  proportional  with  the  square  of  that  stratum's 
distance  from  the  centre. 

But  the  number  of  atoms  in  any  stratum  is  the 
measure  of  the  force  which  emitted  that  stratum,  that 
is  to  say,  is  directly  proportional  with  the  force. 

Therefore  the  force  which  irradiated  any  stratum  is 
directly  proportional  with  the  square  of  that  stratum's 
distance  from  the  centre;  or,  generally: 

The  force  of  the  irradiation  has  been  directly  pro 
portional  with  the  squares  of  the  distances. 

Now,  reaction,  as  far  as  we  know  anything  of  it,  is 
action  conversed.  The  general  principle  of  gravity 
being,  in  the  first  place,  understood  as  the  reaction  of 
an  act,  as  the  expression  of  a  desire  on  the  part  of 

1  Succinctly — The  surfaces  of  spheres  are  as  the  squares  of  their  radii. 

227 


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matter,  while  existing  in  a  state  of  diffusion,  to  return 
into  the  unity  whence  it  was  diffused;  and,  in  the 
second  place,  the  mind  being  called  upon  to  determine 
the  character  of  the  desire,  the  manner  in  which  it 
would  naturally  be  manifested ;  in  other  words,  being 
called  upon  to  conceive  a  probable  law,  or  modus 
opetandi,  for  the  return,  could  not  well  help  arriving 
at  the  conclusion  that  this  law  or  return  would  be  pre 
cisely  the  converse  of  the  law  of  departure.  That  such 
would  be  the  case,  any  one,  at  least,  would  be  abun 
dantly  justified  in  taking  for  granted  until  such  time 
as  some  persons  should  suggest  something  like  a  plau 
sible  reason  why  it  should  not  be  the  case ;  until  such 
period  as  a  law  of  return  shall  be  imagined  which  the 
intellect  can  consider  as  preferable. 

Matter,  then,  irradiated  into  space  with  a  force  vary 
ing  as  the  squares  of  the  distances,  might,  a  priori,  be 
supposed  to  return  toward  its  centre  of  irradiation 
with  a  force  varying  inversely  as  the  squares  of  the 
distances :  and  I  have  already  shown x  that  any  prin 
ciple  which  will  explain  why  the  atoms  should  tend, 
according  to  any  law,  to  the  general  centre,  must  be 
admitted  as  satisfactorily  explaining,  at  the  same  time, 
why,  according  to  the  same  law,  they  should  tend  each 
to  each.  For,  in  fact,  the  tendency  to  the  general 
centre  is  not  to  a  centre  as  such,  but  because  of  its 
being  a  point  in  tending  toward  which  each  atom  tends 

1  Page  214. 

228 


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most  directly  to  its  real  and  essential  centre,  unity — 
the  absolute  and  final  union  of  all. 

The  consideration  here  involved  presents  to  my  own 
mind  no  embarrassment  whatever,  but  this  fact  does 
not  blind  me  to  the  possibility  of  its  being  obscure  to 
those  who  may  have  been  less  in  the  habit  of  dealing 
with  abstractions;  and,  upon  the  whole,  it  may  be  as 
well  to  look  at  the  matter  from  one  or  two  other  points 
of  view. 

The  absolute,  irrelative  particle  primarily  created  by 
the  volition  of  God  must  have  been  in  a  condition  of 
positive  normality,  or  rightf ulness ;  for  wrongfulness 
implies  relation.  Right  is  positive;  wrong  is  nega 
tive,  is  merely  the  negation  of  right;  as  cold  is  the 
negation  of  heat,  darkness  of  light.  That  a  thing 
may  be  wrong,  it  is  necessary  that  there  be  some  other 
thing  in  relation  to  which  it  is  wrong,  some  condition 
which  it  fails  to  satisfy;  some  law  which  it  violates; 
some  being  whom  it  aggrieves.  If  there  be  no  such 
being,  law,  or  condition,  in  respect  to  which  the  thing 
is  wrong,  and,  still  more  especially,  if  no  beings,  laws, 
or  conditions  exist  at  all,  then  the  thing  can  not  be 
wrong,  and  consequently  must  be  right.  Any  devi 
ation  from  normality  involves  a  tendency  to  return  to 
it.  A  difference  from  the  normal,  from  the  right,  from 
the  just,  can  be  understood  as  effected  only  by  the 
overcoming  a  difficulty;  and  if  the  force  which  over 
comes  the  difficulty  be  not  infinitely  continued,  the 

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ineradicable  tendency  to  return  will  at  length  be  per 
mitted  to  act  for  its  own  satisfaction.  Upon  with 
drawal  of  the  force,  the  tendency  acts.  This  is  the 
principle  of  reaction  as  the  inevitable  consequence  of 
finite  action.  Employing  a  phraseology  of  which  the 
seeming  affectation  will  be  pardoned  for  its  expressive 
ness,  we  may  say  that  reaction  is  the  return  from  the 
condition  of  "  as  it  is  and  ought  not  to  be  "  into  the 
condition  of  "  as  it  was,  originally,  and  therefore  ought 
to  be  " ;  and  let  me  add  here  that  the  absolute  force 
of  reaction  would,  no  doubt,  be  always  found  in  direct 
proportion  with  the  reality,  the  truth,  the  absoluteness, 
of  the  originality,  if  ever  it  were  possible  to  measure 
this  latter ;  and,  consequently,  the  greatest  of  all  con 
ceivable  reactions  must  be  that  produced  by  the  ten 
dency  which  we  now  discuss — the  tendency  to  return 
into  the  absolutely  original,  into  the  supremely  primi 
tive.  Gravity,  then,  must  be  the  strongest  of  forces, 
an  idea  reached  a  priori  and  abundantly  confirmed  by 
induction.  What  use  I  make  of  the  idea  will  be  seen 
in  the  sequel. 

The  atoms,  now,  having  been  diffused  from  their 
normal  condition  of  unity,  seek  to  return  to — what  ? 
Not  to  any  particular  point,  certainly;  for  it  is  clear 
that  if,  upon  the  diffusion,  the  whole  universe  of  mat 
ter  had  been  projected,  collectively,  to  a  distance  from 
the  point  of  irradiation,  the  atomic  tendency  to  the 
general  centre  of  the  sphere  would  not  have  been  dis- 

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turbed  in  the  least ;  the  atoms  would  not  have  sought 
the  point  in  absolute  space  from  which  they  were 
originally  impelled.  It  is  merely  the  condition,  and 
not  the  point  or  locality  at  which  this  condition  took 
its  rise,  that  these  atoms  seek  to  re-establish;  it  is 
merely  that  condition  which  is  their  normality  that 
they  desire.  "  But  they  seek  a  centre,"  it  will  be  said, 
"  and  a  centre  is  a  point."  True ;  but  they  seek  this 
point  not  in  its  character  of  point  (for,  were  the  whole 
sphere  moved  from  its  position,  they  would  seek, 
equally,  the  centre;  and  the  centre  then  would  be  a 
new  point),  but  because  it  so  happens,  on  account  of 
the  form  in  which  they  collectively  exist  (that  of  the 
sphere),  that  only  through  the  point  in  question,  the 
sphere's  centre,  they  can  attain  their  true  object, 
unity.  In  the  direction  of  the  centre  each  atom  per 
ceives  more  atoms  than  hi  any  other  direction.  Each 
atom  is  impelled  toward  the  centre  because  along  the 
straight  line  joining  it  and  the  centre  and  passing  on 
to  the  circumference  beyond,  there  lie  a  greater  num 
ber  of  atoms  than  along  any  other  straight  line,  a 
greater  number  of  objects  that  seek  it,  the  individual 
atoms, — a  greater  number  of  tendencies  to  unity,  a 
greater  number  of  satisfactions  for  its  own  tendency 
to  unity,  in  a  word,  because  in  the  direction  of  the 
centre  lies  the  utmost  possibility  of  satisfaction,  gen 
erally,  for  its  own  individual  appetite.  To  be  brief,  the 
condition,  unity,  is  all  that  is  really  sought;  and  if 

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the  atoms  seem  to  seek  the  centre  of  the  sphere  it 
is  only  impliedly,  through  implication,  because  such 
centre  happens  to  imply,  to  include,  or  to  involve,  the 
only  essential  centre,  unity.  But  on  account  of  this 
implication  or  involution,  there  is  no  possibility  of 
practically  separating  the  tendency  to  unity  in  the 
abstract  from  the  tendency  to  the  concrete  centre. 
Thus  the  tendency  of  the  atoms  to  the  general  centre  is, 
to  all  practical  intents  and  for  all  logical  purposes,  the 
tendency  each  to  each ;  and  the  tendency  each  to  each 
is  the  tendency  to  the  centre;  and  the  one  tendency 
may  be  assumed  as  the  other;  whatever  will  apply  to 
the  one  must  be  thoroughly  applicable  to  the  other; 
and,  in  conclusion,  whatever  principle  will  satisfac 
torily  explain  the  one  cannot  be  questioned  as  an  ex 
planation  of  the  other. 

In  looking  carefully  around  me  for  a  rational  objec 
tion  to  what  I  have  advanced,  I  am  able  to  discover 
nothing;  but  of  that  class  of  objections  usually  urged 
by  the  doubters  for  doubt's  sake,  I  very  readily  per 
ceive  three;  and  proceed  to  dispose  of  them  in 
order. 

It  may  be  said,  first:  "  That  the  proof  that  the  force 
of  irradiation  (in  the  case  described)  is  directly  pro 
portional  to  the  squares  of  the  distances,  depends  upon 
an  unwarranted  assumption, — that  of  the  number  of 
atoms  in  each  stratum  being  the  measure  of  the  force 
with  which  they  are  emitted." 

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I  reply,  not  only  that  I  am  warranted  in  such  as 
sumption,  but  that  I  should  be  utterly  unwarranted  in 
any  other.  What  I  assume  is,  simply,  that  an  effect 
is  the  measure  of  its  cause,  that  every  exercise  of  the 
Divine  Will  will  be  proportional  to  that  which  de 
mands  the  exertion ;  that  the  means  of  Omnipotence, 
or  Omniscience,  will  be  exactly  adapted  to  its  purposes. 
Neither  can  a  deficiency  nor  an  excess  of  cause  bring 
to  pass  any  effect.  Had  the  force  which  irradiated 
any  stratum  to  its  position  been  either  more  or  less 
than  was  needed  for  the  purpose,  that  is  to  say,  not 
directly  proportional  to  the  purpose,  then  to  its  posi 
tion  that  stratum  could  not  have  been  irradiated.  Had 
the  force  which,  with  a  view  to  general  equability  of 
distribution,  emitted  the  proper  number  of  atoms  for 
each  stratum  been  not  directly  proportional  to  the 
number,  then  the  number  would  not  have  been  the 
number  demanded  for  the  equable  distribution. 

The  second  supposable  objection  is  somewhat  better 
entitled  to  an  answer. 

It  is  an  admitted  principle  in  dynamics  that  every 
body  on  receiving  an  impulse,  or  disposition  to  move, 
will  move  onward  in  a  straight  line,  in  the  direction 
imparted  by  the  impelling  force,  until  deflected,  or 
stopped,  by  some  other  force.  How  then,  it  may  be 
asked,  is  my  first  or  external  stratum  of  atoms  to  be 
understood  as  discontinuing  their  movement  at  the 
circumference  of  the  imaginary  glass  sphere,  when  no 

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second  force,  of  more  than  an  imaginary  character, 
appears,  to  account  for  the  discontinuance  ? 

I  reply  that  the  objection  in  this  case  actually  does 
arise  out  of  "  an  unwarranted  assumption,"  on  the 
part  of  the  objector, — the  assumption  of  a  principle, 
in  dynamics,  at  an  epoch  when  no  "  principles,"  in 
anything,  exist.  I  use  the  word  "  principle,"  of 
course,  in  the  objector's  understanding  of  the  word. 

"  In  the  beginning  "  we  can  admit,  indeed,  we  can 
comprehend,  but  one  First  Cause,  the  truly  ultimate 
principle,  the  volition  of  God.  The  primary  act,  that 
of  irradiation  from  unity,  must  have  been  independent 
of  all  that  which  the  world  now  calls  "  principle," 
because  all  that  we  so  designate  is  but  a  consequence 
of  the  reaction  of  that  primary  act :  I  say  "  primary" 
act;  for  the  creation  of  the  absolute  material  particle 
is  more  properly  to  be  regarded  as  a  conception  than 
as  an  "  act "  in  the  ordinary  meaning  of  the  term. 
Thus,  we  must  regard  the  primary  act  as  an  act  for 
the  establishment  of  what  we  now  call  "  principle." 
But  this  primary  act  itself  is  to  be  considered  as  con 
tinuous  Volition.  The  thought  of  God  is  to  be  under 
stood  as  originating  the  diffusion,  as  proceeding  with  it, 
as  regulating  it,  and,  finally,  as  being  withdrawn  from 
it  upon  its  completion.  Then  commences  reaction, 
and  through  reaction,  "  principle,"  as  we  employ  the 
word.  It  will  be  advisable,  however,  to  limit  the 
application  of  this  word  to  the  two  immediate  results 

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of  the  discontinuance  of  the  Divine  Volition,  that  is, 
to  the  two  agents,  attraction  and  repulsion.  Every 
other  natural  agent  depends,  either  more  or  less  im 
mediately,  upon  these  two,  and  therefore  would  be 
more  conveniently  designated  as  sub-principle. 

It  may  be  objected,  thirdly,  that,  in  general,  the 
peculiar  mode  of  distribution  which  I  have  suggested 
for  the  atoms  is  "  an  hypothesis  and  nothing 
more." 

Now,  I  am  aware  that  the  word  hypothesis  is  a  pon 
derous  sledge-hammer,  grasped  immediately,  if  not 
lifted,  by  all  very  diminutive  thinkers,  upon  the  first 
appearance  of  any  proposition  wearing,  in  any  par 
ticular,  the  garb  of  a  theory.  But  "  hypothesis  "  can 
not  be  wielded  here  to  any  good  purpose,  even  by  those 
who  succeed  in  lifting  it — little  men  or  great. 

I  maintain,  first,  that  only  in  the  mode  described  is 
it  conceivable  that  matter  could  have  been  diffused  so 
as  to  fulfil  at  once  the  conditions  of  irradiation  and  of 
generally  equable  distribution.  I  maintain,  secondly, 
that  these  conditions  themselves  have  been  imposed 
upon  me,  as  necessities,  in  a  train  of  ratiocination  as 
rigorously  logical  as  that  which  establishes  any  demon 
stration  in  Euclid ;  and  I  maintain,  thirdly,  that  even 
if  the  charge  of  "  hypothesis  "  were  as  fully  sustained 
as  it  is,  in  fact,  unsustained  and  untenable,  still  the 
validity  and  indisputability  of  my  result  would  not, 
even  in  the  slightest  particular,  be  disturbed. 

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To  explain:  The  Newtonian  gravity, — a  law  of 
nature,  a  law  whose  existence  as  such  no  one  out  of 
Bedlam  questions,  a  law  whose  admission  as  such 
enables  us  to  account  for  nine  tenths  of  the  universal 
phenomena,  a  law  which,  merely  because  it  does  so 
enable  us  to  account  for  these  phenomena,  we  are  per 
fectly  willing,  without  reference  to  any  other  consid 
erations,  to  admit,  and  cannot  help  admitting,  as  a 
law,  a  law,  nevertheless,  of  which  neither  the  prin 
ciple  nor  the  modus  operand!  of  the  principle  has  ever 
yet  been  traced  by  the  human  analysis,  a  law,  in 
short,  which,  neither  in  its  detail  nor  in  its  generality, 
has  been  found  susceptible  of  explanation  at  all, — is 
at  length  seen  to  be  at  every  point  thoroughly  explic 
able,  provided  we  only  yield  our  assent  to — what  ?  To 
an  hypothesis  ?  Why  if  an  hypothesis,  if  the  merest 
hypothesis,  if  an  hypothesis  for  whose  assumption,  as 
in  the  case  of  that  pure  hypothesis  the  Newtonian  law 
itself,  no  shadow  of  a  priori  reason  could  be  assigned; 
if  an  hypothesis,  even  so  absolute  as  all  this  implies, 
would  enable  us  to  perceive  a  principle  for  the  New 
tonian  law,  would  enable  us  to  understand  as  satisfied 
conditions  so  miraculously,  so  ineffably  complex  and 
seemingly  irreconcilable  as  those  involved  in  the  rela 
tions  of  which  gravity  tells  us, — what  rational  being 
could  so  expose  his  fatuity  as  to  call  even  this  absolute 
hypothesis  an  hypothesis  any  longer,  unless,  indeed,  he 
were  to  persist  in  so  calling  it,  with  the  understanding 

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that  he  did  so,  simply  for  the  sake  of  consistency  in 
words  ? 

But  what  is  the  true  state  of  our  present  case  ? 
What  is  the  fact  ?  Not  only  that  it  is  not  an  hypoth 
esis  which  we  are  required  to  adopt  in  order  to  admit 
the  principle  at  issue  explained,  but  that  it  is  a  logical 
conclusion  which  we  are  requested  not  to  adopt  if  we 
can  avoid  it,  which  we  are  simply  invited  to  deny  if  we 
can, — a  conclusion  of  so  accurate  a  logicality  that  to 
dispute  it  would  be  the  effort — to  doubt  its  validity, 
beyond  our  power;  a  conclusion  from  which  we  see 
no  mode  of  escape,  turn  as  we  will;  a  result  which 
confronts  us  either  at  the  end  of  an  inductive  journey 
from  the  phenomena  of  the  very  law  discussed,  or  at 
the  close  of  a  deductive  career  from  the  most  rigor 
ously  simple  of  all  conceivable  assumptions — the 
assumption,  in  a  word,  of  simplicity  itself. 

And  if  here,  for  the  mere  sake  of  cavilling,  it  be 
urged  that,  although  my  starting-point  is,  as  I  assert, 
the  assumption  of  absolute  simplicity,  yet  simplicity, 
considered  merely  in  itself,  is  no  axiom;  and  that  only 
deductions  from  axioms  are  indisputable — it  is  thus 
that  I  reply : 

Every  other  science  than  logic  is  the  science  of  cer 
tain  concrete  relations.  Arithmetic,  for  example,  is 
the  science  of  the  relations  of  number;  geometry,  of 
the  relations  of  form ;  mathematics  in  general,  of  the 
relations  of  quantity  in  general,  of  whatever  can  be 

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increased  or  diminished.  Logic,  however,  is  the  sci 
ence  of  relation  in  the  abstract,  of  absolute  relation,  of 
relation  considered  solely  in  itself.  An  axiom  in  any 
particular  science  other  than  logic  is,  thus,  merely 
a  proposition  announcing  certain  concrete  relations 
which  seem  to  be  too  obvious  for  dispute,  as  when  we 
say,  for  instance,  that  the  whole  is  greater  than  its 
part;  and,  thus  again,  the  principle  of  the  logical 
axiom,  in  other  words,  of  an  axiom  in  the  abstract,  is, 
simply,  obviousness  of  relation.  Now,  it  is  clear,  not 
only  that  what  is  obvious  to  one  mind  may  not  be 
obvious  to  another,  but  that  what  is  obvious  to  one 
mind  at  one  epoch  may  be  anything  but  obvious,  at 
another  epoch,  to  the  same  mind.  It  is  clear,  more 
over,  that  what  to-day  is  obvious  even  to  the  majority 
of  mankind,  or  to  the  majority  of  the  best  intellects 
of  mankind,  may  to-morrow  be,  to  either  majority, 
more  or  less  obvious,  or  in  no  respect  obvious  at  all. 
It  is  seen,  then,  that  the  axiomatic  principle  itself  is 
susceptible  of  variation,  and  of  course,  that  axioms 
are  susceptible  of  similar  change.  Being  mutable,  the 
"  truths  "  which  grow  out  of  them  are  necessarily 
mutable  too ;  or,  in  other  words,  are  never  to  be  posi 
tively  depended  upon  as  truths  at  all,  since  truth  and 
immutability  are  one. 

It  will  now  be  readily  understood  that  no  axiomatic 
idea,  no  idea  founded  in  the  fluctuating  principle, 
obviousness  of  relation,  can  possibly  be  so  secure,  so 

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reliable  a  basis  for  any  structure  erected  by  the  reason, 
as  that  idea  (whatever  it  is,  wherever  we  can  find  it, 
or  if  it  be  practicable  to  find  it  anywhere)  which  is 
irrelative  altogether,  which  not  only  presents  to  the 
understanding  no  obviousness  of  relation,  either 
greater  or  less,  to  be  considered,  but  subjects  the  in 
tellect  not  hi  the  slightest  degree  to  the  necessity  of 
even  looking  at  any  relation  at  all.  If  such  an  idea  be 
not  what  we  too  heedlessly  term  "  an  axiom,"  it  is  at 
least  preferable,  as  a  logical  basis,  to  any  axiom  ever 
propounded,  or  to  all  imaginable  axioms  combined; 
and  such,  precisely,  is  the  idea  with  which  my  deduc 
tive  process,  so  thoroughly  corroborated  by  induc 
tion,  commences.  My  particle  proper  is  but  absolute 
irrelation.  To  sum  up  what  has  been  advanced :  As  a 
starting-point  I  have  taken  it  for  granted,  simply,  that 
the  beginning  had  nothing  behind  it  or  before  it,  that 
it  was  a  beginning  in  fact,  that  it  was  a  beginning  and 
nothing  different  from  a  beginning;  in  short,  that  this 
beginning  was — that  which  it  was.  If  this  be  a  "  mere 
assumption,"  then  a  "  mere  assumption  "  let  it  be. 

To  conclude  this  branch  of  the  subject:  I  am  fully 
warranted  in  announcing  that  the  law  which  we  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  calling  gravity  exists  on  account 
of  matter's  having  been  irradiated,  at  its  origin,  atomi- 
cally,  into  a  limited r  sphere  of  space,  from  one,  indi- 

1 "  Limited  sphere  " — a  sphere  is  necessarily  limited.    I  prefer  tautology 
to  a  chance  of  misconception. 

239 


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vidual,  unconditional,  irrelative,  and  absolute  particle 
proper,  by  the  sole  process  in  which  it  was  possible  to 
satisfy,  at  the  same  time,  the  two  conditions,  irradia 
tion,  and  generally  equable  distribution  throughout  the 
sphere,  that  is  to  say,  by  a  force  varying  in  direct  pro 
portion  with  the  squares  of  the  distances  between  the 
irradiated  atoms,  respectively,  and  the  particular  centre 
of  irradiation. 

I  have  already  given  my  reasons  for  presuming  mat 
ter  to  have  been  diffused  by  a  determinate  rather  than 
by  a  continuous  or  infinitely  continued  force.  Sup 
posing  a  continuous  force,  we  should  be  unable,  in  the 
first  place,  to  comprehend  a  reaction  at  all;  and  we 
should  be  required,  in  the  second  place,  to  entertain 
the  impossible  conception  of  an  infinite  extension  of 
matter.  Not  to  dwell  upon  the  impossibility  of  the 
conception,  the  infinite  extension  of  matter  is  an  idea 
which,  if  not  positively  disproved,  is  at  least  not  in 
any  respect  warranted  by  telescopic  observation  of  the 
stars,  a  point  to  be  explained  more  fully  hereafter ;  and 
this  empirical  reason  for  believing  in  the  original  finity 
of  matter  is  unempirically  confirmed.  For  example : 
Admitting,  for  the  moment,  the  possibility  of  under 
standing  space  fitted  with  the  irradiated  atoms,  that  is 
to  say,  admitting,  as  well  as  we  can,  for  argument's 
sake,  that  the  succession  of  the  irradiated  atoms  had 
absolutely  no  end,  then  it  is  abundantly  clear  that,  even 
when  the  volition  of  God  had  been  withdrawn  from 

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vidual,  unconditional,  irrelative,  and  absolute  particle 
r,  by  the  sole  process  in  which  it  was  posttble  to 
%  at  the  same  time,  the  two  conditions,  irradia 
tion,  and  generally  equable  distribution  throughout  the 
sphere,  that  is  to  say,  by  a  force  varying  in  direct  pro 
portion  with  the  squares  of  the  distances  between  the 
irradiated  atoms,  respectively,  and  the  particular  centre 
of  irradiation. 

I  have  already  given  my  reasons  for  presuming  mat 
ter  to  have  been  diffused  by  a  determinate  rather  than 
by  a  continuous  or  infinitely  continued  force.  Sup 
posing  a  continuous  force,  we  should  be  unable,  in  the 
first  plaMfsto  GieipHnfc'to<Htfm 

should  be  rwtir9kV6^ffiptftf$»*tto&  entertain 
the  impossible  conception  of  an  infinite  extension  of 
matter.  Not  to  *M§  «pm  tkt  tepMtfUttty  «f  the 
conception,  tfc*  MM*  iMtoMte  «t  flMtttr  is  an  idea 
which,  if  Ml  fNMrttftvaty  dbprwwi,  is  at  least  not  in 
any  respect  warranted  %y  telescopic  observation  of  the 
stars,  a  point  to  be  explained  more  fully  hereafter ;  and 
this  empirical  reason  for  believing  in  the  original  finity 
of  matter  is  unempirically  confirmed.  For  example : 
Admitting,  for  the  moment,  the  possibility  of  under 
standing  space  fitted  with  the  irradiated  atoms,  that  is 
to  say,  admitting,  as  well  as  we  can,  for  argument's 
sake,  that  the  succession  of  the  irradiated  atoms  had 
absolutely  no  end,  then  it  is  abundantly  clear  that,  even 
when  the  volition  of  God  had  been  withdrawn  from 

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them,  and  thus  the  tendency  to  return  into  unity  per 
mitted  (abstractly)  to  be  satisfied,  this  permission 
would  have  been  nugatory  and  invalid,  practically 
valueless  and  of  no  effect  whatever.  No  reaction  could 
have  taken  place;  no  movement  toward  unity  could 
have  been  made;  no  law  of  gravity  could  have  ob 
tained. 

To  explain :  Grant  the  abstract  tendency  of  any  one 
atom  to  any  one  other  as  the  inevitable  result  of  diffu 
sion  from  the  normal  unity;  or,  what  is  the  same 
thing,  admit  any  given  atom  as  proposing  to  move  in 
any  given  direction,  it  is  clear  that,  since  there  is  an 
infinity  of  atoms  on  all  sides  of  the  atom  proposing  to 
move,  it  never  can  actually  move  toward  the  satisfac 
tion  of  its  tendency  in  the  direction  given,  on  account 
of  a  precisely  equal  and  counterbalancing  tendency  in 
the  direction  diametrically  opposite.  In  other  words, 
exactly  as  many  tendencies  to  unity  are  behind  the 
hesitating  atom  as  before  it ;  for  it  is  a  mere  sotticism 
to  say  that  one  infinite  line  is  longer  or  shorter  than 
another  infinite  line,  or  that  one  infinite  number  is 
greater  or  less  than  another  number  that  is  infinite. 
Thus  the  atom  in  question  must  remain  stationary 
forever.  Under  the  impossible  circumstances  which 
we  have  been  merely  endeavoring  to  conceive  for  argu 
ment's  sake,  there  could  have  been  no  aggregate  of 
matter,  no  stars,  no  worlds,  nothing  but  a  perpetually 
atomic  and  inconsequential  universe.  In  fact,  view 


VOL.  X. — 16. 


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it  as  we  will,  the  whole  idea  of  unlimited  matter  is  not 
only  untenable,  but  impossible  and  preposterous. 

With  the  understanding  of  a  sphere  of  atoms,  how 
ever,  we  perceive  at  once  a  satisfiable  tendency  to 
union.  The  general  result  of  the  tendency  each  to 
each  being  a  tendency  of  all  to  the  centre,  the  general 
process  of  condensation,  or  approximation,  commences 
immediately,  by  a  common  and  simultaneous  move 
ment,  on  withdrawal  of  the  Divine  Volition;  the 
individual  approximations,  or  coalescences — not  coa 
litions — of  atom  with  atom,  being  subject  to  almost 
infinite  variations  of  time,  degree,  and  conditions,  on 
account  of  the  excessive  multiplicity  of  relation,  aris 
ing  from  the  differences  of  form  assumed  as  character 
izing  the  atoms  at  the  moment  of  their  quitting  the 
particle  proper,  as  well  as  from  the  subsequent  par 
ticular  inequidistance,  each  from  each. 

What  I  wish  to  impress  upon  the  reader  is  the  cer 
tainty  of  there  arising,  at  once  (on  withdrawal  of  the 
diffusive  force,  or  Divine  Volition),  out  of  the  condition 
of  the  atoms  as  described,  at  innumerable  points 
throughout  the  universal  sphere,  innumerable  agglom 
erations,  characterized  by  innumerable  specific  differ 
ences  of  form,  size,  essential  nature,  and  distance  each 
from  each.  The  development  of  repulsion  (electricity) 
must  have  commenced,  of  course,  with  the  very 
earliest  particular  efforts  at  unity,  and  must  have 
proceeded  constantly  in  the  ratio  of  coalescence,  that 

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is  to  say,  in  that  of  condensation,  or,  again,  of 
heterogeneity. 

Thus  the  two  principles  proper,  attraction  and  re 
pulsion,  the  material  and  the  spiritual,  accompany 
each  other,  in  the  strictest  fellowship,  forever.  Thus 
the  body  and  the  soul  walk  hand  in  hand. 

If  now,  in  fancy,  we  select  any  one  of  the  agglomera 
tions  considered  as  in  their  primary  stages  throughout 
the  universal  sphere,  and  suppose  this  incipient  agglom 
eration  to  be  taking  place  at  that  point  where  the 
centre  of  our  sun  exists,  or  rather  where  it  did  exist 
originally,  for  the  sun  is  perpetually  shifting  its  posi 
tion,  we  shall  find  ourselves  met,  and  borne  onward 
for  a  time  at  least,  by  the  most  magnificent  of  theories, 
by  the  Nebular  Cosmogony  of  Laplace ;  although  "  cos 
mogony  "  is  far  too  comprehensive  a  term  for  what  he 
really  discusses,  which  is  the  constitution  of  our  solar 
system  alone,  of  one  among  the  myriad  of  similar 
systems  which  make  up  the  universe  proper, — that 
universal  sphere,  that  all-inclusive  and  absolute  kos- 
mos  which  forms  the  subject  of  my  present  discourse. 

Confining  himself  to  an  obviously  limited  region, 
that  of  our  solar  system  with  its  comparatively  imme 
diate  vicinity,  and  merely  assuming,  that  is  to  say, 
assuming  without  any  basis  whatever,  either  deductive 
or  inductive,  much  of  what  I  have  been  just  endeavor 
ing  to  place  upon  a  more  stable  basis  than  assumption ; 
assuming,  for  example,  matter  as  diffused  (without 

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pretending  to  account  for  the  diffusion)  throughout, 
and  somewhat  beyond,  the  space  occupied  by  our 
system,  diffused  in  a  state  of  heterogenous  nebulosity 
and  obedient  to  that  omniprevalent  law  of  gravity  at 
whose  principle  he  ventured  to  make  no  guess, — 
assuming  all  this  (which  is  quite  true,  although  he  had 
no  logical  right  to  its  assumption),  Laplace  has  shown, 
dynamically  and  mathematically,  that  the  results  in 
such  case  necessarily  ensuing  are  those  and  those 
alone  which  we  find  manifested  in  the  actually  existing 
condition  of  the  system  itself. 

To  explain :  Let  us  conceive  that  particular  agglom 
eration  of  which  we  have  just  spoken,  the  one  at  the 
point  designated  by  our  sun's  centre,  to  have  so  far 
proceeded  that  a  vast  quantity  of  nebulous  matter 
has  here  assumed  a  roughly  globular  form,  its  centre 
being,  of  course,  coincident  with  what  is  now,  or  rather 
was  originally,  the  centre  of  our  sun,  and  its  periph 
ery  extending  out  beyond  the  orbit  of  Neptune,  the 
most  remote  of  our  planets ;  in  other  words,  let  us  sup 
pose  the  diameter  of  this  rough  sphere  to  be  some  six 
thousand  millions  of  miles.  For  ages,  this  mass  of  mat 
ter  has  been  undergoing  condensation,  until  at  length 
it  has  become  reduced  into  the  bulk  we  imagine; 
having  proceeded  gradually,  of  course,  from  its  atomic 
and  imperceptible  state  into  what  we  understand  of 
visible,  palpable,  or  otherwise  appreciable  nebulosity. 

Now,  the  condition  of  this  mass  implies  a  rotation 
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about  an  imaginary  axis,  a  rotation  which,  commenc 
ing  with  the  absolute  incipiency  of  the  aggregation, 
has  been  ever  since  acquiring  velocity.  The  very  first 
two  atoms  which  met,  approaching  each  other  from 
points  not  diametrically  opposite,  would,  in  rushing 
partially  past  each  other,  form  a  nucleus  for  the  rotary 
movement  described.  How  this  would  increase  in 
velocity  is  readily  seen.  The  two  atoms  are  joined  by 
others, — an  aggregation  is  formed.  The  mass  con 
tinues  to  rotate  while  condensing.  But  any  atom  at 
the  circumference  has,  of  course,  a  more  rapid  motion 
than  one  nearer  the  centre.  The  outer  atom,  how 
ever,  with  its  superior  velocity,  approaches  the  centre, 
carrying  this  superior  velocity  with  it  as  it  goes.  Thus 
every  atom,  proceeding  inwardly,  and  finally  attach 
ing  itself  to  the  condensed  centre,  adds  something  to 
the  original  velocity  of  that  centre,  that  is  to  say,  in 
creases  the  rotary  movement  of  the  mass. 

Let  us  now  suppose  this  mass  so  far  condensed  that 
it  occupies  precisely  the  space  circumscribed  by  the 
orbit  of  Neptune,  and  that  the  velocity  with  which  the 
surface  of  the  mass  moves,  in  the  general  rotation,  is 
precisely  that  velocity  with  which  Neptune  now  re 
volves  about  the  sun.  At  this  epoch,  then,  we  are  to 
understand  that  the  constantly  increasing  centrifugal 
force,  having  gotten  the  better  of  the  non-increasing 
centripetal,  loosened  and  separated  the  exterior  and 
least  condensed  strata,  at  the  equator  of  the  sphere, 

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where  the  tangential  velocity  predominated;  so  that 
these  strata  formed  about  the  main  body  an  indepen 
dent  ring  encircling  the  equatorial  regions;  just  as 
the  exterior  portion  thrown  off  by  excessive  velocity  of 
rotation,  from  a  grindstone,  would  form  a  ring  about 
the  grindstone  but  for  the  solidity  of  the  superficial 
material;  were  this  caoutchouc,  or  anything  similar 
in  consistency,  precisely  the  phenomenon  I  describe 
would  be  presented. 

The  ring  thus  whirled  from  the  nebulous  mass,  re 
volved,  of  course,  as  a  separate  ring,  with  just  that 
velocity  with  which,  while  the  surface  of  the  mass,  it 
rotated.  In  the  meantime,  condensation  still  pro 
ceeding,  the  interval  between  the  discharged  ring  and 
the  main  body  continued  to  increase  until  the  former 
was  left  at  a  vast  distance  from  the  latter. 

Now,  admitting  the  ring  to  have  possessed,  by  some 
seemingly  accidental  arrangement  of  its  heterogeneous 
materials,  a  constitution  nearly  uniform,  then  this 
ring,  as  such,  would  never  have  ceased  revolving  about 
its  primary;  but,  as  might  have  been  anticipated, 
there  appears  to  have  been  enough  irregularity  in  the 
disposition  of  the  materials  to  make  them  cluster  about 
centres  of  superior  solidity ;  and  thus  the  annular  form 
was  destroyed.1  No  doubt  the  band  was  soon  broken 

1  Laplace  assumed  his  nebulosity  heterogeneous,  merely  that  he  might  be 
thus  enabled  to  account  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  rings;  for  had  the  nebu 
losity  been  homogeneous,  they  would  not  have  broken.  I  reach  the  same 
result,  heterogeneity  of  the  secondary  masses  immediately  resulting  from  the 
atoms  purely  from  an  a  priori  consideration  of  their  general  design — relation. 

246 


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up  into  several  portions,  and  one  of  these  portions, 
predominating  in  mass,  absorbed  the  others  into  itself, 
the  whole  settling,  spherically,  into  a  planet.  That 
this  latter,  as  a  planet,  continued  the  revolutionary 
movement  which  characterized  it  while  a  ring  is 
sufficiently  clear;  and  that  it  took  upon  itself,  also, 
an  additional  movement,  in  its  new  condition  of  sphere, 
is  readily  explained.  The  ring  being  understood  as 
yet  unbroken,  we  see  that  its  exterior,  while  the  whole 
revolves  about  the  parent  body,  moves  more  rapidly 
than  its  interior.  When  the  rupture  occurred,  then, 
some  portion  in  each  fragment  must  have  been  moving 
with  greater  velocity  than  the  others.  The  superior 
movement  prevailing  must  have  whirled  each  frag 
ment  round,  that  is  to  say,  have  caused  it  to  rotate; 
and  the  direction  of  the  rotation  must,  of  course,  have 
been  the  direction  of  the  revolution  whence  it  arose. 
All  the  fragments  having  become  subject  to  the  rota 
tion  described,  must,  hi  coalescing,  have  imparted  it 
to  the  one  planet  constituted  by  their  coalescence. 
This  planet  was  Neptune.  Its  material  continuing  to 
undergo  condensation,  and  the  centrifugal  force  gen 
erated  in  its  rotation,  getting,  at  length,  the  better  of 
the  centripetal,  as  before  in  the  case  of  the  parent  orb, 
a  ring  was  whirled  also  from  the  equatorial  surface  of 
this  planet ;  this  ring,  having  been  uniform  in  its  con 
stitution,  was  broken  up,  and  its  several  fragments, 
being  absorbed  by  the  most  massive,  were  collectively 

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spherified  into  a  moon.  Subsequently  the  operation 
was  repeated,  and  a  second  moon  was  the  result.  We 
thus  account  for  the  planet  Neptune,  with  the  two 
satellites  which  accompany  him. 

In  throwing  off  a  ring  from  its  equator,  the  sun  re 
established  that  equilibrium  between  its  centripetal  and 
centrifugal  forces  which  had  been  disturbed  in  the  pro 
cess  of  condensation;  but,  as  this  condensation  still 
proceeded,  the  equilibrium  was  again  immediately 
disturbed,  through  the  increase  of  rotation.  By  the 
time  the  mass  had  so  far  shrunk  that  it  occupied  a 
spherical  space  just  that  circumscribed  by  the  orbit  of 
Uranus,  we  are  to  understand  that  the  centrifugal 
force  had  so  far  obtained  the  ascendency  that  new 
relief  was  needed ;  a  second  equatorial  band  was  con 
sequently  thrown  off,  which,  proving  ununiform,  was 
broken  up,  as  before  in  the  case  of  Neptune,  the  frag 
ments  settling  into  the  planet  Uranus,  the  velocity  of 
whose  actual  revolution  about  the  sun  indicates,  of 
course,  the  rotary  speed  of  that  sun's  equatorial  sur 
face  at  the  moment  of  the  separation.  Uranus,  adopt 
ing  a  rotation  from  the  collective  rotations  of  the 
fragments  composing  it,  as  previously  explained,  now 
threw  off  ring  after  ring;  each  of  which,  becoming 
broken  up,  settled  into  a  moon,  three  moons,  at  differ 
ent  epochs,  having  been  formed,  hi  this  manner,  by 
the  rupture  and  general  spherification  of  as  many  dis 
tinct  ununiform  rings. 

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By  the  time  the  sun  had  shrunk  until  it  occupied  a 
space  just  that  circumscribed  by  the  orbit  of  Saturn, 
the  balance,  we  are  to  suppose,  between  its  centripetal 
and  centrifugal  forces  had  again  become  so  far  dis 
turbed,  through  increase  of  rotary  velocity,  the  result 
of  condensation,  that  a  third  effort  at  equilibrium  be 
came  necessary;  and  an  annular  band  was  therefore 
whirled  off,  as  twice  before,  which,  on  rupture  through 
ununif  ormity,  became  consolidated  into  the  planet  Sat 
urn.  This  latter  threw  off,  in  the  first  place,  seven 
uniform  bands,  which,  on  rupture,  were  spherified 
respectively  into  as  many  moons;  but,  subsequently, 
it  appears  to  have  discharged,  at  three  distinct  but  not 
very  distant  epochs,  three  rings  whose  equability  of 
constitution  was,  by  apparent  accident,  so  considerable 
as  to  present  no  occasion  for  their  rupture ;  thus  they 
continue  to  revolve  as  rings.  I  use  the  phrase  "  ap 
parent  accident  " ;  for  of  accident  in  the  ordinary 
sense  there  was,  of  course,  nothing;  the  term  is  prop 
erly  applied  only  to  the  result  of  indistinguishable  or 
not  immediately  traceable  law. 

Shrinking  still  farther,  until  it  occupied  just  the 
space  circumscribed  by  the  orbit  of  Jupiter,  the  sun 
now  found  need  of  further  effort  to  restore  the  coun 
terbalance  of  its  two  forces,  continually  disarranged  in 
the  still  continued  increase  of  rotation.  Jupiter,  ac 
cordingly,  was  now  thrown  off,  passing  from  the 
annular  to  the  planetary  condition ;  and,  on  attaining 

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this  latter,  threw  off  in  its  turn,  at  four  different 
epochs,  four  rings,  which  finally  resolved  themselves 
into  so  many  moons. 

Still  shrinking,  until  its  sphere  occupied  just  the 
space  defined  by  the  orbit  of  the  Asteroids,  the  sun  now 
discarded  a  ring  which  appears  to  have  had  eight 
centres  of  superior  solidity,  and,  on  breaking  up,  to 
have  separated  into  eight  fragments,  no  one  of  which 
so  far  predominated  in  mass  as  to  absorb  the  others. 
All,  therefore,  as  distinct  although  comparatively  small 
planets,  proceeded  to  revolve  in  orbits  whose  dis 
tances,  each  from  each,  may  be  considered  as  in  some 
degree  the  measure  of  the  force  which  drove  them 
asunder,  all  the  orbits,  nevertheless,  being  so  closely 
coincident  as  to  admit  of  our  calling  them  one,  in  view 
of  the  other  planetary  orbits. 

Continuing  to  shrink,  the  sun,  on  becoming  so  small 
as  just  to  fill  the  orbit  of  Mars,  now  discharged  this 
planet,  of  course  by  the  process  repeatedly  described. 
Having  no  moon,  however,  Mars  could  have  thrown 
off  no  ring.  In  fact,  an  epoch  had  now  arrived  in  the 
career  of  the  parent  body,  the  centre  of  the  system. 
The  decrease  of  its  nebulosity,  which  is  the  increase  of 
its  density,  and  which  again  is  the  decrease  of  its  con 
densation,  out  of  which  latter  arose  the  constant  dis 
turbance  of  equilibrium,  must,  by  this  period,  have 
attained  a  point  at  which  the  efforts  for  restoration 
would  have  been  more  and  more  ineffectual  just  in 

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proportion  as  they  were  less  frequently  needed.  Thus 
the  processes  of  which  we  have  been  speaking  would 
everywhere  show  signs  of  exhaustion — in  the  planets, 
first;  and,  secondly,  in  the  original  mass.  We  must 
not  fall  into  the  error  of  supposing  the  decrease  of  in 
terval  observed  among  the  planets  as  we  approach  the 
sun  to  be  in  any  respect  indicative  of  an  increase  of 
frequency  in  the  periods  at  which  they  were  discarded. 
Exactly  the  converse  is  to  be  understood.  The  longest 
interval  of  time  must  have  occurred  between  the  dis 
charges  of  the  two  interior;  the  shortest,  between 
those  of  the  two  exterior,  planets.  The  decrease  of  the 
interval  of  space  is,  nevertheless,  the  measure  of  the 
density,  and  thus  inversely  of  the  condensation,  of 
the  sun,  throughout  the  processes  detailed. 

Having  shrunk,  however,  so  far  as  to  fill  only  the 
orbit  of  our  earth,  the  parent  sphere  whirled  from 
itself  still  one  other  body,  the  earth,  in  a  condition 
so  nebulous  as  to  admit  of  this  body's  discarding,  in 
its  turn,  yet  another,  which  is  our  moon;  but  here 
terminated  the  lunar  formations. 

Finally,  subsiding  to  the  orbits  first  of  Venus  and 
then  of  Mercury,  the  sun  discarded  these  two  interior 
planets,  neither  of  which  has  given  birth  to  any  moon. 

Thus  from  his  original  bulk,  or,  to  speak  more  accu 
rately,  from  the  condition  in  which  we  first  considered 
him,  from  a  partially  spherified  nebular  mass,  cer 
tainly  much  more  than  5,600,000,000  of  miles  in 

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diameter,  the  great  central  orb  and  origin  of  our  solar- 
planetary-lunar  system,  has  gradually  descended,  by 
condensation,  in  obedience  to  the  law  of  gravity,  to  a 
globe  only  882,000  miles  in  diameter;  but  it  by  no 
means  follows,  either  that  its  condensation  is  yet  com 
plete,  or  that  it  may  not  still  possess  the  capacity  of 
whirling  from  itself  another  planet. 

I  have  here  given,  in  outline,  of  course,  but  still  with 
all  the  detail  necessary  for  distinctness,  a  view  of  the 
Nebular  Theory  as  its  author  himself  conceived  it. 
From  whatever  point  we  regard  it,  we  shall  find  it 
beautifully  true.    It  is  by  far  too  beautiful,  indeed, 
not  to  possess  truth  as  its  essentiality,  and  here  I  am 
very  profoundly  serious  in  what  I  say.     In  the  revolu 
tion  of  the  satellites  of  Uranus,  there  does  appear 
something  seemingly  inconsistent  with  the  assump 
tions  of  Laplace;     but  that  one  inconsistency  can 
invalidate  a  theory  constructed  from  a  million  of  in 
tricate  consistencies  is  a  fancy  fit  only  for  the  fantas 
tic.     In  prophesying,  confidently,  that  the  apparent 
anomaly  to  which  I  refer  will,  sooner  or  later,  be 
found  one  of  the  strongest  possible  corroborations  of 
the  general  hypothesis,  I  pretend  to  no  especial  spirit 
of  divination.     It  is  a  matter  which  the  only  difficulty 
seems  not  to  foresee.1 

The  bodies  whirled  off  in  the  processes  described, 

I 1  am  prepared  to  show  that  the  anomalous  revolution  of  the  satellites  of 
Uranus  is  a  simply  perspective  anomaly  arising  from  the  inclination  of  the 
axis  of  the  planet. 

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would  exchange,  it  has  been  seen,  the  superficial  rota 
tion  of  the  orbs  whence  they  originated  for  a  revolu 
tion  of  equal  velocity  about  these  orbs  as  distant 
centres;  and  the  revolution  thus  engendered  must 
proceed,  so  long  as  the  centripetal  force,  or  that  with 
which  the  discarded  body  gravitates  toward  its  parent, 
is  neither  greater  nor  less  than  that  by  which  it  was 
discarded;  that  is,  than  the  centrifugal,  or,  far  more 
properly,  than  the  tangential,  velocity.  From  the 
unity,  however,  of  the  origin  of  these  two  forces,  we 
might  have  expected  to  find  them  as  they  are  found, 
the  one  accurately  counterbalancing  the  other.  It  has 
been  shown,  indeed,  that  the  act  of  whirling  off  is,  in 
every  case,  merely  an  act  for  the  preservation  of  the 
counterbalance. 

After  referring,  however,  the  centripetal  force  to  the 
omniprevalent  law  of  gravity,  it  has  been  the  fashion 
with  astronomical  treatises  to  seek  beyond  the  limits 
of  mere  nature,  that  is  to  say,  of  secondary  cause,  a 
solution  of  the  phenomenon  of  tangential  velocity. 
This  latter  they  attribute  directly  to  a  First  Cause,  to 
God.  The  force  which  carries  a  stellar  body  around 
its  primary  they  assert  to  have  originated  in  an  im 
pulse  given  immediately  by  the  finger, — this  is  the 
childish  phraseology  employed, — by  the  finger  of 
Deity  itself.  In  this  view,  the  planets,  fully  formed, 
are  conceived  to  have  been  hurled  from  the  Divine 
hand  to  a  position  in  the  vicinity  of  the  suns,  with  an 

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impetus  mathematically  adapted  to  the  masses,  or 
attractive  capacities,  of  the  suns  themselves.  An  idea 
so  grossly  unphilosophical,  although  so  supinely 
adopted,  could  have  arisen  only  from  the  difficulty  of 
otherwise  accounting  for  the  absolutely  accurate  adap 
tation,  each  to  each,  of  two  forces  so  seemingly  inde 
pendent,  one  of  the  other,  as  are  the  gravitating  and 
tangential.  But  it  should  be  remembered  that,  for  a 
long  time,  the  coincidence  between  the  moon's  rota 
tion  and  her  sidereal  revolution,  two  matters  seem 
ingly  far  more  independent  than  those  now  considered, 
was  looked  upon  as  positively  miraculous;  and 
there  was  a  strong  disposition,  even  among  astron 
omers,  to  attribute  the  marvel  to  the  direct  and  con 
tinual  agency  of  God,  who,  in  this  case,  it  was  said, 
had  found  it  necessary  to  interpose,  specially,  among 
His  general  laws,  a  set  of  subsidiary  regulations  for  the 
purpose  of  forever  concealing  from  mortal  eyes  the 
glories,  or  perhaps  the  horrors,  of  the  other  side  of 
the  moon, — of  that  mysterious  hemisphere  which  has 
always  avoided,  and  must  perpetually  avoid,  the  tele 
scopic  scrutiny  of  mankind.  The  advance  of  science, 
however,  soon  demonstrated,  what  to  the  philosophi 
cal  instinct  needed  no  demonstration,  that  the  one 
movement  is  but  a  portion,  something  more,  even, 
than  a  consequence,  of  the  other. 

For  my  part,  I  have  no  patience  with  fantasies  at 
once  so  timorous,  so  idle,  and  so  awkward.     They 

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belong  to  the  veriest  cowardice  of  thought.  That  na 
ture  and  the  God  of  nature  are  distinct,  no  thinking 
being  can  long  doubt.  By  the  former  we  imply  merely 
the  laws  of  the  latter.  But  with  the  very  idea  of  God, 
omnipotent,  omniscient,  we  entertain,  also,  the  idea 
of  the  infallibility  of  His  laws.  With  Him  there  being 
neither  past  nor  future,  with  Him  all  being  now,  do 
we  not  insult  Him  in  supposing  His  law  so  contrived 
as  not  to  provide  for  every  possible  contingency  ?  or, 
rather,  what  idea  can  we  have  of  any  possible  con 
tingency  except  that  it  is  at  once  a  result  and  a  mani 
festation  of  His  laws  ?  He  who,  divesting  himself  of 
prejudice,  shall  have  the  rare  courage  to  think  abso 
lutely  for  himself,  cannot  fail  to  arrive,  in  the  end,  at 
the  condensation  "  laws  "  into  "  Law,"  cannot  fail  of 
reaching  the  conclusion  that  each  law  of  nature  is 
dependent  at  all  points  upon  all  other  laws,  and  that 
all  are  but  consequences  of  but  one  primary  exercise  of 
the  Divine  Volition.  Such  is  the  principle  of  the 
cosmogony  which,  with  all  necessary  deference,  I  here 
venture  to  suggest  and  to  maintain. 

In  this  view  it  will  be  seen  that,  dismissing  as  frivo 
lous,  and  even  impious,  the  fancy  of  the  tangential 
force  having  been  imparted  to  the  planets  immediately 
by  "  the  finger  of  God,"  I  consider  this  force  as  orig 
inating  in  the  rotation  of  the  stars;  this  rotation  as 
brought  about  by  the  in-rushing  of  the  primary  atoms 
toward  their  respective  centres  of  aggregation;  this 

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in-rushing  as  the  consequence  of  the  law  of  gravity; 
this  law  as  but  the  mode  in  which  is  necessarily  mani 
fested  the  tendency  of  the  atoms  to  return  into  im- 
particularity ;  this  tendency  to  return  as  but  the 
inevitable  reaction  of  the  first  and  most  sublime  of 
acts, — that  act  by  which  a  God,  self-existing  and  alone 
existing,  became  all  things  at  once,  through  dint  of  His 
volition,  while  all  things  were  thus  constituted  a  por 
tion  of  God. 

The  radical  assumptions  of  this  discourse  suggest  to 
me,  and  in  fact  imply,  certain  important  modifications 
of  the  Nebular  Theory  as  given  by  Laplace.  The  efforts 
of  the  repulsive  power  I  have  considered  as  made  for 
the  purpose  of  preventing  contact  among  the  atoms, 
and  thus  as  made  in  the  ratio  of  the  approach  to  con 
tact,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  ratio  of  condensation.1  In 
other  words,  electricity,  with  its  involute  phenomena, 
heat,  light,  and  magnetism,  is  to  be  understood  as 
proceeding  as  condensation  proceeds,  and,  of  course, 
inversely,  as  destiny  proceeds,  or  the  cessation  to  con 
dense.  Thus  the  sun,  in  the  process  of  its  aggregation, 
must  soon,  in  developing  repulsion,  have  become  ex 
cessively  heated,  perhaps  incandescent;  and  we  can 
perceive  how  the  operation  of  discarding  its  rings  must 
have  been  materially  assisted  by  the  slight  incrustation 
of  its  surface  consequent  on  cooling.  Any  common 
experiment  shows  us  how  readily  a  crust  of  the  char- 

1  See  page  242. 

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acter  suggested  is  separated,  through  heterogeneity, 
from  the  interior  mass.  But,  on  every  successive  re 
jection  of  the  crust,  the  new  surface  would  appear  in 
candescent  as  before ;  and  the  period  at  which  it  would 
again  become  so  far  incrusted  as  to  be  readily  loosened 
and  discharged  may  well  be  imagined  as  exactly  coin 
cident  with  that  at  which  a  new  effort  would  be  needed, 
by  the  whole  mass,  to  restore  the  equilibrium  of  the 
two  forces,  disarranged  through  condensation.  In 
other  words,  by  the  time  the  electric  influence  (repul 
sion)  has  prepared  the  surface  for  rejection,  we  are 
to  understand  that  the  gravitating  influence  (attrac 
tion)  is  precisely  ready  to  reject  it.  Here,  then,  as 
everywhere,  the  body  and  the  soul  walk  hand  in  hand. 
These  ideas  are  empirically  confirmed  at'  all  points. 
Since  condensation  can  never,  in  any  body,  be  con 
sidered  as  absolutely  at  an  end,  we  are  warranted  in 
anticipating  that  whenever  we  have  an  opportunity  of 
testing  the  matter,  we  shall  find  indications  of  resident 
luminosity  in  all  the  stellar  bodies,  moons  and  planets 
as  well  as  suns.  That  our  moon  is  strongly  self- 
luminous  we  see  at  every  total  eclipse,  when,  if  not  so, 
she  would  disappear.  On  the  dark  part  of  the  satel 
lite,  too,  during  her  phases,  we  often  observe  flashes 
like  our  own  Auroras ;  and  that  these  latter,  with  our 
various  other  so-called  electrical  phenomena,  without 
reference  to  any  more  steady  radiance,  must  give 
our  earth  a  certain  appearance  of  luminosity  to  an 


Eureka 

inhabitant  of  the  moon,  is  quite  evident.  In  fact,  we 
should  regard  all  the  phenomena  referred  to  as  mere 
manifestations,  in  different  moods  and  degrees,  of  the 
earth's  feebly  continued  condensation. 

If  my  views  are  tenable,  we  should  be  prepared  to 
find  the  newer  planets,  that  is  to  say,  those  nearer  the 
sun,  more  luminous  than  those  older  and  more  remote ; 
and  the  extreme  brilliancy  of  Venus  (on  whose  dark 
portions,  during  her  phases,  the  Auroras  are  frequently 
visible)  does  not  seem  to  be  altogether  accounted  for 
by  her  proximity  to  the  central  orb.  She  is  no  doubt 
vividly  self-luminous,  although  less  so  than  Mercury; 
while  the  luminosity  of  Neptune  may  be  comparatively 
nothing. 

Admitting  what  I  have  urged,  it  is  clear  that,  from 
the  moment  of  the  sun's  discarding  a  ring,  there  must 
be  a  continuous  diminution  both  of  his  heat  and  light, 
on  account  of  the  continuous  incrustation  of  his  sur 
face  ;  and  that  a  period  would  arrive,  the  period  im 
mediately  previous  to  a  new  discharge,  when  a  very 
material  decrease  of  both  light  and  heat  must  become 
apparent.  Now,  we  know  that  tokens  of  such  changes 
are  distinctly  recognizable.  On  the  Melville  Islands,  to 
adduce  merely  one  out  of  a  hundred  examples,  we  find 
traces  of  ultra-tropical  vegetation,  of  plants  that  never 
could  have  flourished  without  immensely  more  light 
and  heat  than  are  at  present  afforded  by  our  sun  to  any 
portion  of  the  surface  of  the  earth.  Is  such  vegetation 

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referable  to  an  epoch  immediately  subsequent  to  the 
whirling  off  of  Venus  ?  At  this  epoch  must  have 
occurred  to  us  our  greatest  access  of  solar  influence; 
and,  in  fact,  this  influence  must  then  have  attained  its 
maximum,  leaving  out  of  view,  of  course,  the  period 
when  the  earth  itself  was  discarded — the  period  of  its 
mere  organization. 

Again,  we  know  that  there  exist  non-luminous  suns, 
that  is  to  say,  suns  whose  existence  we  determine 
through  the  movements  of  others,  but  whose  lumin 
osity  is  not  sufficient  to  impress  us.  Are  these  suns 
invisible  merely  on  account  of  the  length  of  time 
elapsed  since  their  discharge  of  a  planet  ?  And  yet 
again :  may  we  not,  at  least  in  certain  cases,  account 
for  the  sudden  appearances  of  suns  where  none  had 
been  previously  suspected,  by  the  hypothesis  that, 
having  rolled  with  incrusted  surfaces  throughout  a  few 
thousand  years  of  our  astronomical  history,  each  of 
these  suns,  in  whirling  off  a  new  secondary,  has  at 
length  been  enabled  to  display  the  glories  of  its  still 
incandescent  interior  ?  To  the  well-ascertained  fact 
of  the  proportional  increase  of  heat  as  we  descend  into 
the  earth,  I  need  of  course  do  nothing  more  than  refer ; 
it  comes  in  the  strongest  possible  corroboration  of  all 
that  I  have  said  on  the  topic  now  at  issue. 

In  speaking,  not  long  ago,  of  the  repulsive  or 
electrical  influence,  I  remarked  that  "  the  important 
phenomena  of  vitality,  consciousness,  and  thought, 

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whether  we  observe  them  generally  or  in  detail,  seem 
to  proceed  at  least  in  the  ratio  of  the  heterogeneous." x 
I  mentioned,  too,  that  I  would  recur  to  the  suggestion, 
and  this  is  the  proper  point  at  which  to  do  so.  Look 
ing  at  the  matter  first  in  detail,  we  perceive  that  not 
merely  the  manifestation  of  vitality,  but  its  importance, 
consequences,  and  elevation  of  character,  keep  pace 
very  closely  with  the  heterogeneity  or  complexity  of 
the  animal  structure.  Looking  at  the  question  now 
in  its  generality,  and  referring  to  the  first  movements 
of  the  atoms  toward  mass-constitution,  we  find  that 
heterogeneousness,  brought  about  directly  through 
condensation,  is  proportional  with  it  forever.  We 
thus  reach  the  proposition  that  the  importance  of  the 
development  of  the  terrestrial  vitality  proceeds  equably 
with  the  terrestrial  condensation. 

Now,  this  is  in  precise  accordance  with  what  we 
know  of  the  succession  of  animals  on  the  earth.  As 
it  has  proceeded  in  its  condensation,  superior  and  still 
superior  races  have  appeared.  Is  it  impossible  that 
the  successive  geological  revolutions  which  have  at 
tended,  at  least,  if  not  immediately  caused,  these  suc 
cessive  elevations  of  vitalic  character — is  it  improbable 
that  these  revolutions  have  themselves  been  produced 
by  the  successive  planetary  discharges  from  the  sun, 
in  other  words,  by  the  successive  variations  in  the 
solar  influence  on  the  earth  ?  Were  this  idea  tenable, 

1  Page  203. 

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we  should  not  be  unwarranted  in  the  fancy  that  the 
discharge  of  yet  a  new  planet,  interior  to  Mercury, 
may  give  rise  to  yet  a  new  modification  of  the  terres 
trial  surface,  a  modification  from  which  may  spring  a 
race  both  materially  and  spiritually  superior  to  man. 
These  thoughts  impress  me  with  all  the  force  of  truth, 
but  I  throw  them  out,  of  course,  merely  in  their  obvi 
ous  character  of  suggestion. 

The  Nebular  Theory  of  Laplace  has  lately  received 
far  more  confirmation  than  it  needed  at  the  hands 
of  the  philosopher,  Comte.  These  two  have  thus  to 
gether  shown,  not,  to  be  sure,  that  matter  at  any 
period  actually  existed  as  described,  in  a  state  of  nebu 
lar  diffusion,  but  that,  admitting  it  so  to  have  existed 
through  the  space  and  much  beyond  the  space  now 
occupied  by  our  solar  system,  and  to  have  commenced 
a  movement  toward  a  centre,  it  must  gradually  have 
assumed  the  various  forms  and  motions  which  are 
now  seen,  in  that  system,  to  obtain.  A  demonstration 
such  as  this,  a  dynamical  and  mathematical  demon 
stration,  as  far  as  demonstration  can  be,  unques 
tionable  and  unquestioned,  unless,  indeed,  by  that 
unprofitable  and  disreputable  tribe,  the  professional 
questioners, — the  mere  madmen  who  deny  the  New 
tonian  law  of  gravity  on  which  the  results  of  the 
French  mathematicians  are  based, — a  demonstration, 
I  say,  such  as  this,  would  to  most  intellects  be  con 
clusive,  and  I  confess  that  it  is  so  to  mine,  of  the 

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validity  of  the  nebular  hypothesis  upon  which  the 
demonstration  depends. 

That  the  demonstration  does  not  prove  the  hypoth 
esis,  according  to  the  common  understanding  of  the 
word  "  proof,"  I  admit,  of  course.  To  show  that  cer 
tain  existing  results,  that  certain  established  facts, 
may  be,  even  mathematically,  accounted  for  by  the 
assumption  of  a  certain  hypothesis,  is  by  no  means  to 
establish  the  hypothesis  itself.  In  other  words,  to 
show  that,  certain  data  being  given,  a  certain  existing 
result  might,  or  even  must,  have  ensued,  will  fail  to 
prove  that  this  result  did  ensue,  from  the  data,  until 
such  time  as  it  shall  be  also  shown  that  there  are,  and 
can  be,  no  other  data  from  which  the  result  in  ques 
tion  might  equally  have  ensued.  But,  in  the  case  now 
discussed,  although  all  must  admit  the  deficiency,  of 
what  we  are  in  the  habit  of  terming  "  proof,"  still 
there  are  many  intellects,  and  those  of  the  loftiest 
order,  to  which  no  proof  could  bring  one  iota  of  addi 
tional  conviction.  Without  going  into  details  which 
might  impinge  upon  the  cloud-land  of  metaphysics,  I 
may  as  well  here  observe  that  the  force  of  conviction, 
in  cases  such  as  this,  will  always,  with  the  right- 
thinking,  be  proportional  to  the  amount  of  complexity 
intervening  between  the  hypothesis  and  the  result.  To 
be  less  abstract :  The  greatness  of  the  complexity  found 
existing  among  cosmical  conditions,  by  rendering  great 
in  the  same  proportion  the  difficulty  of  accounting  for 

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all  these  conditions,  at  once  strengthens,  also  in  the 
same  proportion,  our  faith  in  that  hypothesis  which 
does,  in  such  manner,  satisfactorily  account  for  them ; 
and  as  no  complexity  can  well  be  conceived  greater 
than  that  of  the  astronomical  conditions,  so  no  con 
viction  can  be  stronger,  to  my  mind  at  least,  than  that 
with  which  I  am  impressed  by  an  hypothesis  that  not 
only  reconciles  these  conditions,  with  mathematical 
accuracy,  and  reduces  them  into  a  consistent  and  in 
telligible  whole,  but  is,  at  the  same  time,  the  sole 
hypothesis  by  means  of  which  the  human  intellect  has 
been  ever  enabled  to  account  for  them  at  all. 

A  most  unfounded  opinion  has  been  latterly  current 
in  gossiping  and  even  hi  scientific  circles,  the  opinion 
that  the  so-called  Nebular  Cosmogony  has  been  over 
thrown.  This  fancy  has  arisen  from  the  report  of 
late  observations  made,  among  what  hitherto  have 
been  termed  the  "  nebulae,"  through  the  large  tele 
scope  of  Cincinnati  and  the  world-renowned  instrument 
of  Lord  Rosse.  Certain  spots  in  the  firmament  which 
presented,  even  to  the  most  powerful  of  the  old  tele 
scopes,  the  appearance  of  nebulosity  or  haze,  had  been 
regarded  for  a  long  time  as  confirming  the  theory  of 
Laplace.  They  were  looked  upon  as  stars  in  that  very 
process  of  condensation  which  I  have  been  attempting 
to  describe.  Thus  it  was  supposed  that  we  "  had  oc 
ular  evidence  " — an  evidence,  by  the  way,  which  has 
always  been  found  very  questionable — of  the  truth  of 

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the  hypothesis;  and,  although  certain  telescopic  im 
provements,  every  now  and  then,  enabled  us  to  per 
ceive  that  a  spot,  here  and  there,  which  we  had  been 
classing  among  the  nebulae,  was,  in  fact,  but  a  cluster 
of  stars  deriving  its  nebular  character  only  from  its 
immensity  of  distance,  still  it  was  thought  that  no 
doubt  could  exist  as  to  the  actual  nebulosity  of  numer 
ous  other  masses,  the  strongholds  of  the  nebulists,  bid 
ding  defiance  to  every  effort  at  segregation.  Of  these 
latter  the  most  interesting  was  the  great  "  nebula  "  in 
the  constellation  Orion;  but  this,  with  innumerable 
other  miscalled  "  nebulas,"  when  viewed  through  the 
magnificent  modern  telescopes,  has  become  resolved 
into  a  simple  collection  of  stars.  Now  this  fact  has 
been  very  generally  understood  as  conclusive  against 
the  Nebular  Hypothesis  of  Laplace ;  and,  on  announce 
ment  of  the  discoveries  in  question,  the  most  enthusi 
astic  defender  and  most  eloquent  popularizer  of  the 
theory,  Dr.  Nichol,  went  so  far  as  to  "  admit  the  ne 
cessity  of  abandoning"  an  idea  which  had  formed  the 
material  of  his  most  praiseworthy  book.1 

Many  of  my  readers  will  no  doubt  be  inclined  to  say 
that  the  result  of  these  new  investigations  has  at  least 

1  Views  of  the  Architecture  of  the  Heavens.  A  letter,  purporting  to  be  from 
Dr.  Nichol  to  a  friend  in  America,  went  the  rounds  of  our  newspapers  about 
two  years  ago,  I  think,  admitting  the  "  necessity  "  to  which  I  refer.  In  a 
subsequent  lecture,  however,  Dr.  N.  appears  in  some  manner  to  have  gotten 
the  better  of  the  necessity  and  does  not  quite  renounce  the  theory,  although 
he  seems  to  wish  that  he  could  sneer  at  it  as  "  a  purely  hypothetical  one." 
What  else  was  the  law  of  gravity  before  the  Maskelyne  experiments  ?  and 
who  questioned  the  law  of  gravity  even  then  ? 

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a  strong  tendency  to  overthrow  the  hypothesis ;  while 
some  of  them,  more  thoughtful,  will  suggest  that, 
although  the  theory  is  by  no  means  disproved  through 
the  segregation  of  the  particular  "  nebulae  "  alluded  to, 
still  a  failure  to  segregate  them,  with  such  telescopes, 
might  well  have  been  understood  as  a  triumphant  cor- 
roboration  of  the  theory:  and  this  latter  class  will  be 
surprised,  perhaps,  to  hear  me  say  that  even  with  them 
I  disagree.  If  the  propositions  of  this  discourse  have 
been  comprehended,  it  will  be  seen  that,  in  my  view,  a 
failure  to  segregate  the  "  nebulae  "  would  have  tended 
to  the  refutation,  rather  than  to  the  confirmation,  of 
the  Nebular  Hypothesis. 

Let  me  explain:  The  Newtonian  law  of  gravity  we 
may,  of  course,  assume  as  demonstrated.  This  law,  it 
will  be  remembered,  I  have  referred  to  the  reaction  of 
the  first  Divine  Act — to  the  reaction  of  an  exercise  of 
the  Divine  Volition  temporarily  overcoming  a  difficulty. 
This  difficulty  is  that  of  forcing  the  normal  into  the 
abnormal,  of  impelling  that  whose  originality,  and 
therefore  whose  rightful  condition,  was  one,  to  take 
upon  itself  the  wrongful  condition  of  many.  It  is  only 
by  conceiving  this  difficulty  as  temporarily  overcome 
that  we  can  comprehend  a  reaction.  There  could  have 
been  no  reaction  had  the  act  been  infinitely  continued. 
So  long  as  the  act  lasted,  no  reaction,  of  course,  could 
commence ;  in  other  words,  no  gravitation  could  take 
place,  for  we  have  considered  the  one  as  but  the 

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manifestation  of  the  other.  But  gravitation  has  taken 
place ;  therefore  the  act  of  Creation  has  ceased ;  and 
gravitation  has  long  ago  taken  place ;  therefore  the  act 
of  Creation  has  long  ago  ceased.  We  can  no  more 
expect,  then,  to  observe  the  primary  processes  of  Cre 
ation  ;  and  to  these  primary  processes  the  condition  of 
nebulosity  has  already  been  explained  to  belong. 

Through  what  we  know  of  the  propagation  of  light, 
we  have  direct  proof  that  the  more  remote  of  the  stars 
have  existed,  under  the  forms  in  which  we  now  see 
them,  for  an  inconceivable  number  of  years.  So  far 
back  at  least,  then,  as  the  period  when  these  stars 
underwent  condensation,  must  have  been  the  epoch  at 
which  the  mass-constitutive  processes  began.  That 
we  may  conceive  these  processes,  then,  as  still  going 
on  in  the  case  of  certain  "  nebulae,"  while  in  all  other 
cases  we  find  them  thoroughly  at  an  end,  we  are  forced 
into  assumptions  for  which  we  have  really  no  basis 
whatever;  we  have  to  thrust  in,  again,  upon  the  re 
volting  reason  the  blasphemous  idea  of  special  inter 
position;  we  have  to  suppose  that,  in  the  particular 
instances  of  these  "  nebulae,"  an  unerring  God  found  it 
necessary  to  introduce  certain  supplementary  regula 
tions,  certain  improvements  of  the  general  law,  certain 
re-touchings  and  emendations,  in  a  word,  which  had 
the  effect  of  deferring  the  completion  of  these  individ 
ual  stars  for  centuries  of  centuries  beyond  the  area 
during  which  all  the  other  stellar  bodies  had  time,  not 

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only  to  be  fully  constituted,  but  to  grow  hoary  with  an 
unspeakable  old  age. 

Of  course,  it  will  be  immediately  objected  that  since 
the  light  by  which  we  recognize  the  nebulae  now  must 
be  merely  that  which  left  their  surfaces  a  vast  number 
of  years  ago,  the  processes  at  present  observed,  or  sup 
posed  to  be  observed,  are,  in  fact,  not  processes  now 
actually  going  on,  but  the  phantoms  of  processes  com 
pleted  long  in  the  past,  just  as  I  maintain  all  these 
mass-constitutive  processes  must  have  been. 

To  this  I  reply  that  neither  is  the  now-observed  con 
dition  of  the  condensed  stars  their  actual  condition, 
but  a  condition  completed  long  in  the  past;  so  that 
my  argument  drawn  from  the  relative  condition  of  the 
stars  and  the  "  nebulae  "  is  in  no  manner  disturbed. 
Moreover,  those  who  maintain  the  existence  of  neb 
ulae  do  not  refer  the  nebulosity  to  extreme  distance ; 
they  declare  it  a  real  and  not  merely  a  perspective 
nebulosity.  That  we  may  conceive,  indeed,  a  nebular 
mass  as  visible  at  all,  we  must  conceive  it  as  very  near 
us  in  comparison  with  the  condensed  stars  brought 
into  view  by  the  modern  telescopes.  In  maintaining 
the  appearances  in  question,  then,  to  be  really  nebu 
lous,  we  maintain  their  comparative  vicinity  to  our 
own  point  of  view.  Thus,  their  condition,  as  we  see 
them  now,  must  be  referred  to  an  epoch  far  less  remote 
than  that  to  which  we  may  refer  the  now-observed 
condition  of  at  least  the  majority  of  the  stars.  In  a 

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word,  should  astronomy  ever  demonstrate  a  "  nebula," 
in  the  sense  at  present  intended,  I  should  consider 
the  Nebular  Cosmogony,  not,  indeed,  as  corroborated 
by  the  demonstration,  but  as  thereby  irretrievably 
overthrown. 

By  way,  however,  of  rendering  unto  Caesar  no  more 
than  the  things  that  are  Caesar's,  let  me  here  remark 
that  the  assumption  of  the  hypothesis  which  led  him 
to  so  glorious  a  result  seems  to  have  been  suggested 
to  Laplace  in  great  measure  by  a  misconception,  by 
the  very  misconception  of  which  we  have  just  been 
speaking,  by  the  generally  prevalent  misunderstanding 
of  the  character  of  the  nebulae,  so  mis-named.  These 
he  supposed  to  be,  in  reality,  what  their  designation 
implies.  The  fact  is,  this  great  man  had,  very  prop 
erly,  an  inferior  faith  in  his  own  merely  perceptive 
powers.  In  respect,  therefore,  to  the  actual  existence 
of  nebulae,  an  existence  so  confidently  maintained  by 
his  telescopic  contemporaries,  he  depended  less  upon 
what  he  saw  than  upon  what  he  heard. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  only  valid  objections  to  his 
theory  are  those  made  to  its  hypothesis  as  such;  to 
what  suggested  it,  not  to  what  it  suggests;  to  its  prop 
ositions  rather  than  to  its  results.  His  most  unwar 
ranted  assumption  was  that  of  giving  the  atoms  a 
movement  toward  a  centre,  in  the  very  face  of  his 
evident  understanding  that  these  atoms,  in  unlimited 
succession,  extended  throughout  the  universal  space. 

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I  have  already  shown  that,  under  such  circumstances, 
there  could  have  occurred  no  movement  at  all;  and 
Laplace,  consequently,  assumed  one  on  no  more  philo 
sophical  ground  than  that  something  of  the  kind  was 
necessary  for  the  establishment  of  what  he  intended  to 
establish. 

His  original  idea  seems  to  have  been  a  compound  of 
the  true  Epicurean  atoms  with  the  false  nebulae  of  his 
contemporaries ;  and  thus  his  theory  presents  us  with 
the  singular  anomaly  of  absolute  truth  deduced,  as  a 
mathematical  result,  from  a  hybrid  datum  of  ancient 
imagination  intertangled  with  modern  inacumen.  Lap 
lace's  real  strength  lay,  in  fact,  in  an  almost  miracu 
lous  mathematical  instinct;  on  this  he  relied,  and  in 
no  instance  did  it  fail  or  deceive  him :  in  the  case  of  the 
Nebular  Cosmogony,  it  led  him,  blindfolded,  through  a 
labyrinth  of  error  into  one  of  the  most  luminous  and 
stupendous  temples  of  truth. 

Let  us  now  fancy,  for  the  moment,  that  the  ring  first 
thrown  off  by  the  sun,  that  is  to  say,  the  ring  whose 
breaking  up  constituted  Neptune,  did  not,  in  fact,  break 
up  until  the  throwing  off  of  the  ring  out  of  which 
Uranus  arose ;  that  this  latter  ring,  again,  remained 
perfect  until  the  discharge  of  that  out  of  which  sprang 
Saturn;  that  this  latter,  again,  remained  entire  until 
the  discharge  of  that  from  which  originated  Jupiter, 
and  so  on.  Let  us  imagine,  in  a  word,  that  no  dissolu 
tion  occurred  among  the  rings  until  the  final  rejection 

269 


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of  that  which  gave  birth  to  Mercury.  We  thus  paint 
to  the  eye  of  the  mind  a  series  of  co-existent  concen 
tric  circles;  and  looking  as  well  at  them  as  at  the 
processes  by  which,  according  to  Laplace's  hypothesis, 
they  were  constructed,  we  perceive  at  once  a  very  singu 
lar  analogy  with  the  atomic  strata  and  the  process  of 
the  original  irradiation  as  I  have  described  it.  Is  it 
impossible  that,  on  measuring  the  forces,  respectively, 
by  which  each  successive  planetary  circle  was  thrown 
off,  that  is  to  say,  on  measuring  the  successive  ex 
cesses  of  rotation  over  gravitation  which  occasioned 
the  successive  discharges,  we  should  find  the  analogy 
in  question  more  decidedly  confirmed  ?  Is  it  improb 
able  that  we  should  discover  these  forces  to  have  varied 
as,  in  the  original  radiation,  proportionably  to  the 
squares  of  the  distances  ? 

Our  solar  system,  consisting,  in  chief,  of  one  sun, 
with  sixteen  planets  certainly,  and  possibly  a  few  more, 
revolving  about  it  at  various  distances,  and  attended 
by  seventeen  moons  assuredly,  but  very  probably  by 
several  others,  is  now  to  be  considered  as  an  example 
of  the  innumerable  agglomerations  which  proceeded  to 
take  place  throughout  the  universal  sphere  of  atoms 
on  withdrawal  of  the  Divine  Volition.  I  mean  to  say 
that  our  solar  system  is  to  be  understood  as  affording 
a  generic  instance  of  these  agglomerations,  or,  more 
correctly,  of  the  ulterior  conditions  at  which  they 
arrived.  If  we  keep  our  attention  fixed  on  the  idea  of 

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the  utmost  possible  relation  as  the  Omnipotent  design, 
and  on  the  precautions  taken  to  accomplish  it  through 
difference  of  form,  among  the  original  atoms,  and  par 
ticular  inequidistance,  we  shall  find  it  impossible  to 
suppose  for  a  moment  that  even  any  two  of  the  incipi 
ent  agglomerations  reached  precisely  the  same  result 
in  the  end.  We  shall  rather  be  inclined  to  think  that 
no  two  stellar  bodies  in  the  universe,  whether  suns, 
planets,  or  moons,  are  particularly,  while  all  are  gen 
erally,  similar.  Still  less,  then,  can  we  imagine  any 
two  assemblages  of  such  bodies,  any  two  "  systems," 
as  having  more  than  a  general  resemblance. z  Our 
telescopes  at  this  point  thoroughly  confirm  our  deduc 
tions.  Taking  our  own  solar  system,  then,  as  merely 
a  loose  or  general  type  of  all,  we  have  so  far  proceeded 
in  our  subject  as  to  survey  the  universe  under  the 
aspect  of  a  spherical  space,  throughout  which,  dis 
persed  with  merely  general  equability,  exist  a  number 
of  but  generally  similar  systems. 

Let  us  now,  expanding  our  conceptions,  look  upon 
each  of  these  systems  as  in  itself  an  atom;  which,  in 
fact,  it  is,  when  we  consider  it  as  but  one  of  the  count 
less  myriads  of  systems  which  constitute  the  universe. 
Regarding  all,  then,  as  but  colossal  atoms,  each  with 


1  It  is  not  impossible  that  some  unlooked-for  optical  improvement  may  dis 
close  to  us,  among  innumerable  varieties  of  systems,  a  luminous  sun,  encircled 
by  luminous  and  non-luminous  rings,  within  and  without,  and  between  which 
revolve  luminous  and  non-luminous  planets,  attended  by  moons  having  moons, 
and  even  these  latter  again  having  moons. 

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the  same  ineradicable  tendency  to  unity  which  charac 
terizes  the  actual  atoms  of  which  it  consists,  we  enter 
at  once  upon  a  new  order  of  aggregations.  The  small 
er  systems,  in  the  vicinity  of  a  larger  one,  would  in 
evitably  be  drawn  into  still  closer  vicinity.  A  thou 
sand  would  assemble  here ;  a  million  there,  perhaps 
here,  again,  even  a  billion,  leaving  thus  immeasur 
able  vacancies  in  space.  And  if,  now,  it  be  demanded 
why,  in  the  case  of  these  systems,  of  these  merely 
Titanic  atoms,  I  speak  simply  of  an  "  assemblage,"  and 
not,  as  in  the  case  of  the  actual  atoms,  of  a  more  or 
less  consolidated  agglomeration;  if  it  be  asked,  for 
instance,  why  I  do  not  carry  what  I  suggest  to  its 
legitimate  conclusion,  and  describe  at  once  these 
assemblages  of  system-atoms  as  rushing  to  consolida 
tion  in  spheres,  as  each  becoming  condensed  into  one 
magnificent  sun,  my  reply  is  that  jjiekhovra  ravra :  I 
am  but  pausing  for  a  moment  on  the  awful  threshold  of 
the  future.  For  the  present,  calling  these  assemblages 
"  clusters,"  we  see  them  in  the  incipient  stages  of  their 
consolidation.  Their  absolute  consolidation  is  to  come. 
We  have  now  reached  a  point  from  which  we  behold 
the  universe  as  a  spherical  space,  interspersed,  un- 
equably,  with  clusters.  It  will  be  noticed  that  I  here 
prefer  the  adverb  "  unequably  "  to  the  phrase  "  with  a 
merely  general  equability,"  employed  before.  It  is 
evident,  in  fact,  that  the  equability  of  distribution  will 
diminish  in  the  ratio  of  the  agglomerative  processes, 

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that  is  to  say,  as  the  things  distributed  diminish  in 
number.  Thus  the  increase  of  inequability,  an  increase 
which  must  continue  until,  sooner  or  later,  an  epoch 
will  arrive  at  which  the  largest  agglomeration  will 
absorb  all  the  others,  should  be  viewed  as  simply  a 
corroborative  indication  of  the  tendency  to  one. 

And  here,  at  length,  it  seems  proper  to  inquire 
whether  the  ascertained  facts  of  astronomy  confirm 
the  general  arrangement  which  I  have  thus  deduc 
tively  assigned  to  the  heavens.  Thoroughly,  they  do. 
Telescopic  observation,  guided  by  the  laws  of  perspec 
tive,  enables  us  to  understand  that  the  perceptible  uni 
verse  exists  as  a  cluster  of  clusters,  irregularly  disposed. 

The  "  clusters  "  of  which  this  universal  "  cluster  of 
clusters  "  consists  are  merely  what  we  have  been  in 
the  practice  of  designating  "  nebulae,"  and  of  these 
"  nebulae,"  one  is  of  paramount  interest  to  mankind. 
I  allude  to  the  Galaxy,  or  Milky  Way.  This  interests 
us,  first  and  most  obviously,  on  account  of  its  great 
superiority  in  apparent  size,  not  only  to  any  one  other 
cluster  in  the  firmament,  but  to  all  the  other  clusters 
taken  together.  The  largest  of  these  latter  occupies 
a  mere  point,  comparatively,  and  is  distinctly  seen 
only  with  the  aid  of  a  telescope.  The  Galaxy  sweeps 
throughout  the  heaven  and  is  brilliantly  visible  to  the 
naked  eye.  But  it  interests  man  chiefly,  although  less 
immediately,  on  account  of  its  being  his  home;  the 
home  of  the  earth  on  which  he  exists ;  the  home  of  the 

VOL.  X.— 18. 


Eureka 

sun  about  which  this  earth  revolves ;  the  home  of  that 
"  system  "  of  orbs  of  which  the  sun  is  the  centre  and 
primary,  the  earth  one  of  sixteen  secondaries  or 
planets,  the  moon  one  of  seventeen  tertiaries  or  satel 
lites.  The  Galaxy,  let  me  repeat,  is  but  one  of  the 
clusters  which  I  have  been  describing,  but  one  of  the 
mis-called  "  nebulae  "  revealed  to  us,  by  the  telescope 
alone,  sometimes,  as  faint  hazy  spots  in  various  quar 
ters  of  the  sky.  We  have  no  reason  to  suppose  the 
Milky  Way  really  more  extensive  than  the  least  of 
these  "  nebulae."  Its  vast  superiority  in  size  is  but  an 
apparent  superiority  arising  from  our  position  in  regard 
to  it,  that  is  to  say,  from  our  position  in  its  midst. 
However  strange  the  assertion  may  at  first  appear  to 
those  unversed  in  astronomy,  still  the  astronomer  him 
self  has  no  hesitation  in  asserting  that  we  are  in  the 
midst  of  that  inconceivable  host  of  stars,  of  suns,  of 
systems,  which  constitute  the  Galaxy.  Moreover,  not 
only  have  we — not  only  has  our  sun  a  right  to  claim 
the  Galaxy  as  its  own  special  cluster,  but,  with  slight 
reservation,  it  may  be  said  that  all  the  distinctly  visible 
stars  of  the  firmament,  all  the  stars  visible  to  the  naked 
eye,  have  equally  a  right  to  claim  it  as  their  own. 

There  has  been  a  great  deal  of  misconception  in  re 
spect  to  the  shape  of  the  Galaxy ;  which  in  nearly  all 
our  astronomical  treatises  is  said  to  resemble  that  of  a 
capital  Y.  The  cluster  in  question  has,  in  reality,  a 
certain  general,  very  general  resemblance  to  the  planet 

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Saturn,  with  its  encompassing  triple  ring.  Instead  of 
the  solid  orb  of  that  planet,  however,  we  must  picture 
to  ourselves  a  lenticular  star-island,  or  collection  of 
stars,  our  sun  lying  eccentrically,  near  the  shore  of 
the  island,  on  that  side  of  it  which  is  nearest  the  con 
stellation  of  the  Cross  and  farthest  from  that  of  Cas 
siopeia.  The  surrounding  ring,  where  it  approaches 
our  position,  has  in  it  a  longitudinal  gash,  which  does, 
in  fact,  cause  the  ring  in  our  vicinity  to  assume,  loosely, 
the  appearance  of  a  capital  Y. 

We  must  not  fall  into  the  error,  however,  of  con 
ceiving  the  somewhat  indefinite  girdle  as  at  all  remote, 
comparatively  speaking,  from  the  also  indefinite  len 
ticular  cluster  which  it  surrounds ;  and  thus,  for  mere 
purpose  of  explanation,  we  may  speak  of  our  sun  as 
actually  situated  at  that  point  of  the  Y  where  its  three 
component  lines  unite;  and,  conceiving  this  letter  to 
be  of  a  certain  solidity,  of  a  certain  thickness,  very 
trivial  in  comparison  with  its  length,  we  may  even 
speak  of  our  position  as  in  the  middle  of  this  thickness. 
Fancying  ourselves  thus  placed,  we  shall  no  longer  find 
difficulty  in  accounting  for  the  phenomena  presented, 
which  are  perspective  altogether.  When  we  look  up 
ward  or  downward,  that  is  to  say,  when  we  cast  our 
eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  letter's  thickness,  we  look 
through  fewer  stars  than  when  we  cast  them  in  the 
direction  of  its  length,  or  along  either  of  the  three 
component  lines.  Of  course,  in  the  former  case,  the 

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stars  appear  scattered;  in  the  latter,  crowded.  To 
reverse  this  explanation :  An  inhabitant  of  the  earth, 
when  looking,  as  we  commonly  express  ourselves,  at 
the  Galaxy,  is  then  beholding  it  in  some  of  the  direc 
tions  of  its  length,  is  looking  along  the  lines  of  the  Y ; 
but  when,  looking  out  into  the  general  heaven,  he 
turns  his  eyes  from  the  Galaxy,  he  is  then  surveying 
it  in  the  direction  of  the  latter's  thickness ;  and  on  this 
account  the  stars  seem  to  him  scattered;  while,  in 
fact,  they  are  as  close  together,  on  an  average,  as  in 
the  mass  of  the  cluster.  No  consideration  could  be 
better  adapted  to  convey  an  idea  of  this  cluster's  stu 
pendous  extent. 

If,  with  a  telescope  of  high  space-penetrating  power, 
we  carefully  inspect  the  firmament,  we  shall  become 
aware  of  a  belt  of  clusters  of  what  we  have  hitherto 
called  "  nebulae,"  a  band  of  varying  breadth  stretch 
ing  from  horizon  to  horizon,  at  right  angles  to  the 
general  course  of  the  Milky  Way.  This  band  is  the 
ultimate  cluster  of  clusters.  This  belt  is  the  universe. 
Our  Galaxy  is  but  one,  and  perhaps  one  of  the  most 
inconsiderable,  of  the  clusters  which  go  to  the  con 
stitution  of  this  ultimate,  universal  belt  or  band.  The 
appearance  of  this  cluster  of  clusters,  to  our  eyes,  as 
a  belt  or  band,  is  altogether  a  perspective  phenomenon 
of  the  same  character  as  that  which  causes  us  to  be 
hold  our  own  individual  and  roughly  spherical  cluster, 
the  Galaxy,  under  guise  also  of  a  belt,  traversing  the 

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heavens  at  right  angles  to  the  universal  one.  The 
shape  of  the  all-inclusive  cluster  is,  of  course,  gener 
ally,  that  of  each  individual  cluster  which  it  includes. 
Just  as  the  scattered  stars  which,  on  looking  from  the 
Galaxy,  we  see  in  the  general  sky,  are,  in  fact,  but  a 
portion  of  that  Galaxy  itself,  and  as  closely  inter 
mingled  with  it  as  any  of  the  telescopic  points  in  what 
seems  the  densest  portion  of  its  mass,  so  are  the  scat 
tered  "  nebulae  "  which,  on  casting  our  eyes  from  the 
universal  belt,  we  perceive  at  all  points  of  the  firma 
ment;  so,  I  say,  are  these  scattered  "  nebulae  "  to  be 
understood  as  only  perspectively  scattered,  and  as 
part  and  parcel  of  the  one  supreme  and  universal 
sphere. 

No  astronomical  fallacy  is  more  untenable,  and  none 
has  been  more  pertinaciously  adhered  to,  than  that  of 
the  absolute  illimitation  of  the  universe  of  stars.  The 
reasons  for  limitation,  as  I  have  already  assigned  them, 
a  priorit  seem  to  me  unanswerable ;  but,  not  to  speak 
of  these,  observation  assures  us  that  there  is,  in  num 
erous  directions  around  us,  certainly,  if  not  in  all,  a 
positive  limit,  or,  at  the  very  least,  affords  us  no  basis 
whatever  for  thinking  otherwise.  Were  the  succession 
of  stars  endless,  then  the  background  of  the  sky  would 
present  us  an  uniform  luminosity,  like  that  displayed 
by  the  Galaxy,  since  there  could  be  absolutely  no  point 
in  all  that  background  at  which  would  not  exist  a  star. 
The  only  mode,  therefore,  in  which,  under  such  a  state 

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of  affairs,  we  could  comprehend  the  voids  which  our 
telescopes  find  in  innumerable  directions,  would  be  by 
supposing  the  distance  of  the  invisible  background  so 
immense  that  no  ray  from  it  has  yet  been  able  to  reach 
us  at  all.  That  this  may  be  so,  who  shall  venture  to 
deny?  I  maintain,  simply,  that  we  have  not  even  the 
shadow  of  a  reason  for  believing  that  it  is  so. 

When  speaking  of  the  vulgar  propensity  to  regard 
all  bodies  on  the  earth  as  tending  merely  to  the  earth's 
centre,  I  observed  that, "  with  certain  exceptions  to  be 
specified  hereafter,  every  body  on  the  earth  tended  not 
only  to  the  earth's  centre,  but  in  every  conceivable 
direction  besides."  *  The  "  exceptions  "  refer  to  those 
frequent  gaps  in  the  heavens  where  our  utmost  scru 
tiny  can  detect  not  only  no  stellar  bodies,  but  no  indica 
tions  of  their  existence ;  where  yawning  chasms,  blacker 
than  Erebus,  seem  to  afford  us  glimpses,  through 
the  boundary  walls  of  the  universe  of  stars,  into 
the  illimitable  universe  of  vacancy  beyond.  Now, 
as  any  body  existing  on  the  earth  chances  to  pass, 
either  through  its  own  movement  or  the  earth's,  into 
a  line  with  any  one  of  these  voids,  or  cosmical  abysses, 
it  clearly  is  no  longer  attracted  in  the  direction  of  that 
void,  and  for  the  moment,  consequently,  is  "  heavier  " 
than  at  any  period  either  after  or  before.  Indepen 
dently  of  the  consideration  of  these  voids,  however,  and 
looking  only  at  the  generally  unequable  distribution  of 

^age  209. 

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the  stars,  we  see  that  the  absolute  tendency  of  bodies 
on  the  earth  to  the  earth's  centre  is  in  a  state  of  per 
petual  variation. 

We  comprehend,  then,  the  insulation  of  our  uni 
verse.  We  perceive  the  isolation  of  that,  of  all  that 
which  we  grasp  with  the  senses.  We  know  that  there 
exists  one  cluster  of  clusters,  a  collection  around  which, 
on  all  sides,  extend  the  immeasurable  wildernesses  of 
a  space  to  all  human  perception  untenanted.  But  be 
cause  upon  the  confines  of  this  universe  of  stars  we 
are  compelled  to  pause,  through  want  of  further  evi 
dence  from  the  senses,  is  it  right  to  conclude  that,  in 
fact,  there  is  no  material  point  beyond  that  which  we 
have  thus  been  permitted  to  attain  ?  Have  we,  or 
have  we  not,  an  analogical  right  to  the  inference  that 
this  perceptible  universe,  that  this  cluster  of  clusters, 
is  but  one  of  a  series  of  clusters  of  clusters,  the  rest  of 
which  are  invisible  through  distance,  through  the  dif 
fusion  of  their  light  being  so  excessive,  ere  it  reaches 
us,  as  not  to  produce  upon  our  retinas  a  light-impres 
sion,  or  from  there  being  no  such  emanation  as  light 
at  all,  in  these  unspeakably  distant  worlds,  or,  lastly, 
from  the  mere  interval  being  so  vast  that  the  electric 
tidings  of  their  presence  in  space  have  not  yet,  through 
the  lapsing  myriads  of  years,  been  enabled  to  traverse 
that  interval  ? 

Have  we  any  right  to  inferences,  have  we  any  ground 
whatever  for  visions  such  as  these  ?  If  we  have  a 

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right  to  them  in  any  degree,  we  have  a  right  to  their 
infinite  extension. 

The  human  brain  has  obviously  a  leaning  to  the 
"  infinite,"  and  fondles  the  phantom  of  the  idea.  It 
seems  to  long  with  a  passionate  fervor  for  this  impos 
sible  conception,  with  the  hope  of  intellectually  believ 
ing  it  when  conceived.  What  is  general  among  the 
whole  race  of  man,  of  course  no  individual  of  that  race 
can  be  warranted  in  considering  abnormal ;  neverthe 
less,  there  may  be  a  class  of  superior  intelligences  to 
whom  the  human  bias  alluded  to  may  wear  all  the 
character  of  monomania. 

My  question,  however,  remains  unanswered:  Have 
we  any  right  to  infer,  let  us  say,  rather,  to  imagine,  an 
interminable  succession  of  the  "  clusters  of  clusters," 
or  of  "  universes  "  more  or  less  similar  ? 

I  reply  that  the  "  right,"  in  a  case  such  as  this, 
depends  absolutely  upon  the  hardihood  of  that  imag 
ination  which  ventures  to  claim  the  right.  Let  me 
declare,  only,  that,  as  an  individual,  I  myself  feel  im 
pelled  to  fancy,  without  daring  to  call  it  more,  that 
there  does  exist  a  limitless  succession  of  universes, 
more  or  less  similar  to  that  of  which  we  have  cog 
nizance,  to  that  of  which  alone  we  shall  ever  have 
cognizance,  at  the  very  least  until  the  return  of  our 
own  particular  universe  into  unity.  If  such  clusters  of 
clusters  exist,  however — and  they  do — it  is  abundantly 
clear  that,  having  had  no  part  in  our  origin,  they  have 

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no  portion  in  our  laws.  They  neither  attract  us,  nor 
we  them.  Their  material,  their  spirit  is  not  ours,  is 
not  that  which  obtains  in  any  part  of  our  universe. 
They  could  not  impress  our  senses  or  our  souls. 
Among  them  and  us,  considering  all,  for  the  moment, 
collectively,  there  are  no  influences  in  common.  Each 
exists,  apart  and  independently,  in  the  bosom  of  its 
proper  and  particular  God. 

In  the  conduct  of  this  discourse,  I  am  aiming  less  at 
physical  than  metaphysical  order.  The  clearness  with 
which  even  material  phenomena  are  presented  to  the 
understanding  depends  very  little,  I  have  long  since 
learned  to  perceive,  upon  a  merely  natural,  and  almost 
altogether  upon  a  moral,  arrangement.  If,  then,  I  seem 
to  step  somewhat  too  discursively  from  point  to  point 
of  my  topic,  let  me  suggest  that  I  do  so  in  the  hope 
of  thus  the  better  keeping  unbroken  that  chain  of  grad 
uated  impression  by  which  alone  the  intellect  of  man 
can  expect  to  encompass  the  grandeurs  of  which  I  speak 
and,  in  their  majestic  totality,  to  comprehend  them. 

So  far,  our  attention  has  been  directed,  almost  ex 
clusively,  to  a  general  and  relative  grouping  of  the 
stellar  bodies  in  space.  Of  specification  there  has  been 
little ;  and  whatever  ideas  of  quantity  have  been  con 
veyed,  that  is  to  say,  of  number,  magnitude,  and  dis 
tance,  have  been  conveyed  incidentally  and  by  way  of 
preparation  for  more  definite  conceptions.  These  lat 
ter  let  us  now  attempt  to  entertain. 

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Our  solar  system,  as  has  been  already  mentioned, 
consists,  in  chief,  of  one  sun  and  sixteen  planets  cer 
tainly,  but  in  all  probability  a  few  others,  revolving 
around  it  as  a  centre,  and  attended  by  seventeen  moons 
of  which  we  know,  with  possibly  several  more  of  which 
as  yet  we  know  nothing.  These  various  bodies  are 
not  true  spheres,  but  oblate  spheroids, — spheres  flat 
tened  at  the  poles  of  the  imaginary  axes  about  which 
they  rotate,  the  flattening  being  a  consequence  of  the 
rotation.  Neither  is  the  sun  absolutely  the  centre  of 
the  system;  for  this  sun  itself,  with  all  the  planets, 
revolves  about  a  perpetually  shifting  point  of  space, 
which  is  the  system's  general  centre  of  gravity.  Neither 
are  we  to  consider  the  paths  through  which  these  dif 
ferent  spheroids  move,  the  moons  about  the  planets, 
the  planets  about  the  sun,  or  the  sun  about  the  com 
mon  centre,  as  circles  in  an  accurate  sense.  They 
are,  in  fact,  ellipses,  one  of  the  foci  being  the  point 
about  which  the  revolution  is  made.  An  ellipse  is  a 
curve,  returning  into  itself,  one  of  whose  diameters  is 
longer  than  the  other.  In  the  longer  diameter  are  two 
points,  equidistant  from  the  middle  of  the  line,  and  so 
situated  otherwise  that  if  from  each  of  them  a  straight 
line  be  drawn  to  any  one  point  of  the  curve,  the  two 
lines,  taken  together,  will  be  equal  to  the  long  diam 
eter  itself.  Now,  let  us  conceive  such  an  ellipse.  At 
one  of  the  points  mentioned,  which  are  the  foci,  let  us 
fasten  an  orange.  By  an  elastic  thread  let  us  connect 

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this  orange  with  a  pea ;  and  let  us  place  this  latter  on 
the  circumference  of  the  ellipse.  Let  us  now  move 
the  pea  continuously  around  the  orange,  keeping  al 
ways  on  the  circumference  of  the  ellipse.  The  elastic 
thread,  which,  of  course,  varies  in  length  as  we  move 
the  pea,  will  form  what  in  geometry  is  called  a  radius 
vector.  Now,  if  the  orange  be  understood  as  the  sun, 
and  the  pea  as  a  planet  revolving  about  it,  then  the 
revolution  should  be  made  at  such  a  rate,  with  a  veloc 
ity  so  varying,  that  the  radius  vector  may  pass  over 
equal  areas  of  space  in  equal  times.  The  progress  of 
the  pea  should  be — in  other  words,  the  progress  of  the 
planet  is,  of  course — slow  in  proportion  to  its  distance 
from  the  sun,  swift  hi  proportion  to  its  proximity. 
Those  planets,  moreover,  move  the  more  slowly  which 
are  the  farther  from  the  sun,  the  squares  of  their 
periods  of  revolution  having  the  same  proportion  to 
each  other  as  have  to  each  other  the  cubes  of  their 
mean  distances  from  the  sun. 

The  wonderfully  complex  laws  of  revolution  here 
described,  however,  are  not  to  be  understood  as 
obtaining  in  our  system  alone.  They  everywhere  pre 
vail  where  attraction  prevails.  They  control  the  uni 
verse.  Every  shining  speck  in  the  firmament  is,  no 
doubt,  a  luminous  sun,  resembling  our  own  at  least  in 
its  general  features,  and  having  in  attendance  upon  it 
a  greater  or  less  number  of  planets,  greater  or  less, 
whose  still  lingering  luminosity  is  not  sufficient  to 

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render  them  visible  to  us  at  so  vast  a  distance,  but 
which,  nevertheless,  revolve,  moon-attended,  about 
their  starry  centres,  in  obedience  to  the  principles  just 
detailed,  in  obedience  to  the  three  omniprevalent  laws 
of  revolution,  the  three  immortal  laws  guessed  by  the 
imaginative  Kepler,  and  but  subsequently  demon 
strated  and  accounted  for  by  the  patient  and  mathe 
matical  Newton.  Among  a  tribe  of  philosophers  who 
pride  themselves  excessively  upon  matter-of-fact,  it  is 
far  too  fashionable  to  sneer  at  all  speculation  under 
the  comprehensive  sobriquet,  "  guess-work."  The 
point  to  be  considered  is,  who  guesses.  In  guessing 
with  Plato,  we  spend  our  time  to  better  purpose,  now 
and  then,  than  in  harkening  to  a  demonstration  by 
Alcmaeon. 

In  many  works  on  astronomy  I  find  it  distinctly 
stated  that  the  laws  of  Kepler  are  the  basis  of  the  great 
principle,  gravitation.  This  idea  must  have  arisen 
from  the  fact  that  the  suggestion  of  these  laws  by 
Kepler,  and  his  proving  them  a  posteriori  to  have  an 
actual  existence,  led  Newton  to  account  for  them  by 
the  hypothesis  of  gravitation,  and,  finally,  to  demon 
strate  them  a  priori,  as  necessary  consequences  of  the 
hypothetical  principle.  Thus,  so  far  from  the  laws  of 
Kepler  being  the  basis  of  gravity,  gravity  is  the  basis 
of  these  laws,  as  it  is,  indeed,  of  all  the  laws  of  the 
material  universe  which  are  not  referable  to  repulsion 
alone. 

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The  mean  distance  of  the  earth  from  the  moon,  that 
is  to  say,  from  the  heavenly  body  in  our  closest  vicin 
ity,  is  237,000  miles.  Mercury,  the  planet  nearest  the 
sun,  is  distant  from  him  37,000,000  miles.  Venus,  the 
next,  revolves  at  a  distance  of  68,000,000 ;  the  Earth, 
which  comes  next,  at  a  distance  of  95,000,000 ;  Mars, 
then,  at  a  distance  of  144,000,000.  Now  come  the 
eight  asteroids  (Ceres,  Juno,  Vesta,  Pallas,  Astraea, 
Flora,  Iris,  and  Hebe)  at  an  average  distance  of  about 
250,000,000.  Then  we  have  Jupiter,  distant  490,- 
000,000;  then  Saturn,  900,000,000;  then  Uranus, 
1,900,000,000;  finally,  Neptune,  lately  discovered, 
and  revolving  at  a  distance,  say,  of  2,800,000,000. 
Leaving  Neptune  out  of  the  account,  of  which  as  yet 
we  know  little  accurately  and  which  is  possibly  one  of 
a  system  of  asteroids,  it  will  be  seen  that,  within  cer 
tain  limits,  there  exists  an  order  of  interval  among  the 
planets.  Speaking  loosely,  we  may  say  that  each  outer 
planet  is  twice  as  far  from  the  sun  as  is  the  next  inner 
one.  May  not  the  order  here  mentioned,  may  not 
the  law  of  Bode,  be  deduced  from  consideration  of  the 
analogy  suggested  by  me  as  having  place  between  the 
solar  discharge  of  rings  and  the  mode  of  the  atomic 
irradiation  ? 

The  numbers  hurriedly  mentioned  in  this  summary 
of  distance  it  is  folly  to  attempt  comprehending,  un 
less  in  the  light  of  abstract  arithmetical  facts.  They 
are  not  practically  tangible  ones.  They  convey  no 

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precise  ideas.  I  have  stated  that  Neptune,  the  planet 
farthest  from  the  sun,  revolves  about  him  at  a  dis 
tance  of  2,800,000,000  of  miles.  So  far  good:  I 
have  stated  a  mathematical  fact,  and,  without  com 
prehending  it  in  the  least,  we  may  put  it  to  use, 
mathematically.  But  in  mentioning,  even,  that  the 
moon  revolves  about  the  earth  at  the  comparatively 
trifling  distance  of  237,000  miles,  I  entertained  no 
expectation  of  giving  any  one  to  understand,  to  know, 
to  feel,  how  far  from  the  earth  the  moon  actually  is. 
237,000  miles !  There  are,  perhaps,  few  of  my  readers 
who  have  not  crossed  the  Atlantic  Ocean;  yet  how 
many  of  them  have  a  distinct  idea  of  even  the  3000 
miles  intervening  between  shore  and  shore  ?  I  doubt, 
indeed,  whether  the  man  lives  who  can  force  into  his 
brain  the  most  remote  conception  of  the  interval  be 
tween  one  mile-stone  and  its  next  neighbor  upon  the 
turnpike.  We  are  in  some  measure  aided,  however, 
in  our  consideration  of  distance  by  combining  this  con 
sideration  with  the  kindred  one  of  velocity.  Sound 
passes  through  noo  feet  of  space  in  a  second  of  time. 
Now  were  it  possible  for  an  inhabitant  of  the  earth  to 
see  the  flash  of  a  cannon  discharged  in  the  moon  and 
to  hear  the  report,  he  would  have  to  wait,  after  per 
ceiving  the  former,  more  than  thirteen  entire  days  and 
nights  before  getting  any  intimation  of  the  latter. 

However  feeble  be  the  impression,  even  thus  con 
veyed,  of  the  moon's  real  distance  from  the  earth,  it 

286 


Eureka 

will,  nevertheless,  effect  a  good  object  in  enabling  us 
more  clearly  to  see  the  futility  of  attempting  to  grasp 
such  intervals  as  that  of  the  2,800,000,000  of  miles 
between  our  sun  and  Neptune;  or  even  that  of  the 
95,000,000  between  the  sun  and  the  earth  we  in 
habit.  A  cannon-ball,  flying  at  the  greatest  velocity 
with  which  such  a  ball  has  ever  been  known  to  fly, 
could  not  traverse  the  latter  interval  in  less  than 
twenty  years;  while  for  the  former  it  would  require 
590. 

Our  moon's  real  diameter  is  2160  miles;  yet  she  is 
comparatively  so  trifling  an  object  that  it  would  take 
nearly  fifty  such  orbs  to  compose  one  as  great  as  the 
earth. 

The  diameter  of  our  own  globe  is  7912  miles,  but 
from  the  enunciation  of  these  numbers  what  positive 
idea  do  we  derive  ? 

If  we  ascend  an  ordinary  mountain  and  look  around 
us  from  its  summit,  we  behold  a  landscape  stretching, 
say,  forty  miles  in  every  direction,  forming  a  circle 
250  miles  in  circumference,  and  including  an  area  of 
5000  square  miles.  The  extent  of  such  a  prospect,  on 
account  of  the  successiveness  with  which  its  portions 
necessarily  present  themselves  to  view,  can  be  only 
very  feebly  and  very  partially  appreciated;  yet  the 
entire  panorama  would  comprehend  no  more  than  one 
40,oooth  part  of  the  mere  surface  of  our  globe.  Were 
this  panorama,  then,  to  be  succeeded,  after  the  lapse 

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of  an  hour,  by  another  of  equal  extent ;  this  again  by 
a  third,  after  the  lapse  of  an  hour;  this  again  by  a 
fourth,  after  lapse  of  another  hour,  and  so  on,  until 
the  scenery  of  the  whole  earth  were  exhausted;  and 
were  we  to  be  engaged  in  examining  these  various 
panoramas  for  twelve  hours  of  every  day,  we  should, 
nevertheless,  be  nine  years  and  forty-eight  days  in 
completing  the  general  survey. 

But  if  the  mere  surface  of  the  earth  eludes  the  grasp 
of  the  imagination,  what  are  we  to  think  of  its  cubical 
contents  ?  It  embraces  a  mass  of  matter  equal  in 
weight  to  at  least  two  sextillions,  two  hundred  quiti* 
tillions  of  tons.  Let  us  suppose  it  in  a  state  of 
quiescence;  and  now  let  us  endeavor  to  conceive  a 
mechanical  force  sufficient  to  set  it  in  motion!  Not 
the  strength  of  all  the  myriads  of  beings  whom  we  may 
conclude  to  inhabit  the  planetary  worlds  of  our  sys 
tem,  not  the  combined  physical  strength  of  all  these 
beings,  even  admitting  all  to  be  more  powerful  than 
man,  would  avail  to  stir  the  ponderous  mass  a  single 
inch  from  its  position. 

What  are  we  to  understand,  then,  of  the  force  which, 
under  similar  circumstances,  would  be  required  to 
move  the  largest  of  our  planets,  Jupiter  ?  This  is 
86,000  miles  in  diameter,  and  would  include  within  its 
periphery  more  than  a  thousand  orbs  of  the  magni 
tude  of  our  own.  Yet  this  stupendous  body  is  actually 
flying  around  the  sun  at  the  rate  of  29,000  miles  an 

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hour,  that  is  to  say,  with  a  velocity  forty  times  greater 
than  that  of  a  cannon-ball!  The  thought  of  such  a 
phenomenon  cannot  well  be  said  to  startle  the  mind ; 
it  palsies  and  appalls  it.  Not  unfrequently  we  task  our 
imagination  in  picturing  the  capacities  of  an  angel. 
Let  us  fancy  such  a  being  at  a  distance  of  some  hun 
dred  miles  from  Jupiter,  a  close  eye-witness  of  this 
planet  as  it  speeds  on  its  annual  revolution.  Now, 
can  we,  I  demand,  fashion  for  ourselves  any  concep 
tion  so  distinct  of  this  ideal  being's  spiritual  exaltation 
as  that  involved  in  the  supposition  that,  even  by  this 
immeasurable  mass  of  matter,  whirled  immediately 
before  his  eyes  with  a  velocity  so  unutterable,  he,  an 
angel,  angelic  though  he  be,  is  not  at  once  struck 
into  nothingness  and  overwhelmed? 

At  this  point,  however,  it  seems  proper  to  suggest 
that,  in  fact,  we  have  been  speaking  of  comparative 
trifles.  Our  sun,  the  central  and  controlling  orb  of 
the  system  to  which  Jupiter  belongs,  is  not  only  greater 
than  Jupiter,  but  greater  by  far  than  all  the  planets  of 
the  system  taken  together.  This  fact  is  an  essential 
condition,  indeed,  of  the  stability  of  the  system  itself. 
The  diameter  of  Jupiter  has  been  mentioned;  it  is 
86,000  miles;  that  of  the  sun  is  882,000  miles.  An 
inhabitant  of  the  latter,  travelling  ninety  miles  a  day, 
would  be  more  than  eighty  years  in  going  round  a 
great  circle  of  its  circumference.  It  occupies  a  cubi 
cal  space  of  68 1  quadrillions,  472  trillions  of  miles. 

289 


Eureka 

The  moon,  as  has  been  stated,  revolves  about  the  earth 
at  a  distance  of  237,000  miles,  in  an  orbit,  conse 
quently,  of  nearly  a  million  and  a  half.  Now,  were 
the  sun  placed  upon  the  earth,  centre  over  centre,  the 
body  of  the  former  would  extend,  in  every  direction, 
not  only  to  the  line  of  the  moon's  orbit,  but  beyond  it, 
a  distance  of  200,000  miles. 

And  here  once  again  let  me  suggest  that,  in  fact,  we 
have  still  been  speaking  of  comparative  trifles.  The 
distance  of  the  planet  Neptune  from  the  sun  has  been 
stated ;  it  is  28  hundred  millions  of  miles ;  the  circum 
ference  of  its  orbit,  therefore,  is  about  17  billions. 
Let  this  be  borne  in  mind  while  we  glance  at  some  one 
of  the  brightest  stars.  Between  this  and  the  star  of 
our  system  (the  sun)  there  is  a  gulf  of  space,  to  con 
vey  any  idea  of  which,  we  should  need  the  tongue  of 
an  archangel.  From  our  system,  then,  and  from  our 
sun,  or  star,  the  star  at  which  we  suppose  ourselves 
glancing  is  a  thing  altogether  apart ;  still,  for  the  mo 
ment,  let  us  imagine  it  placed  upon  our  sun,  centre 
over  centre,  as  we  just  now  imagined  this  sun  itself 
placed  upon  the  earth.  Let  us  now  conceive  the  par 
ticular  star  we  have  in  mind,  extending  in  every  direc 
tion  beyond  the  orbit  of  Mercury,  of  Venus,  of  the 
earth ;  still  on,  beyond  the  orbit  of  Mars,  of  Jupiter,  of 
Uranus,  until,  finally,  we  fancy  it  filling  the  circle, 
seventeen  billions  of  miles  in  circumference,  which  is 
described  by  the  revolution  of  Leverrier's  planet.  When 

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Bureka 

we  have  conceived  all  this,  we  shall  have  entertained 
no  extravagant  conception.  There  is  the  very  best 
reason  for  believing  that  many  of  the  stars  are  even 
far  larger  than  the  one  we  have  imagined.  I  mean  to 
say,  that  we  have  the  very  best  empirical  basis  for  such 
belief;  and,  in  looking  back  at  the  original,  atomic 
arrangements  for  diversity,  which  have  been  assumed 
as  a  part  of  the  Divine  plan  in  the  constitution  of  the 
universe,  we  shall  be  enabled  easily  to  understand,  and 
to  credit,  the  existence  of  even  far  vaster  dispropor 
tions  in  stellar  size  than  any  to  which  I  have  hitherto 
alluded.  The  largest  orbs,  of  course,  we  must  expect 
to  find  rolling  through  the  widest  vacancies  of  space. 

I  remarked  just  now  that  to  convey  an  idea  of  the 
interval  between  our  sun  and  any  one  of  the  other 
stars  we  should  require  the  eloquence  of  an  archangel. 
In  so  saying,  I  should  not  be  accused  of  exaggeration ; 
for,  in  simple  truth,  these  are  topics  on  which  it  is 
scarcely  possible  to  exaggerate.  But  let  us  bring  the 
matter  more  distinctly  before  the  eye  of  the  mind. 

In  the  first  place,  we  may  get  a  general,  relative  con 
ception  of  the  interval  referred  to  by  comparing  it  with 
the  inter-planetary  spaces.  If,  for  example,  we  sup 
pose  the  earth,  which  is,  in  reality  95  millions  of  miles 
from  the  sun,  to  be  only  one  foot  from  that  luminary, 
then  Neptune  would  be  forty  feet  distant,  and  the  star 
Alpha  Lyrse,  at  the  very  least,  one  hundred  and  fifty- 
nine. 

291 


Eureka 

Now,  I  presume  that,  in  the  termination  of  my  last 
sentence,  few  of  my  readers  have  noticed  anything 
especially  objectionable,  particularly  wrong.  I  said 
that  the  distance  of  the  earth  from  the  sun  being 
taken  at  one  foot,  the  distance  of  Neptune  would  be 
forty  feet,  and  that  of  Alpha  Lyrae  one  hundred  and 
fifty-nine.  The  proportion  between  one  foot  and  one 
hundred  and  fifty-nine  has  appeared,  perhaps,  to  con 
vey  a  sufficiently  definite  impression  of  the  proportion 
between  the  two  intervals,  that  of  the  earth  from  the 
sun,  and  that  of  Alpha  Lyrae  from  the  same  luminary. 
But  my  account  of  the  matter  should,  in  reality,  have 
run  thus:  The  distance  of  the  earth  from  the  sun 
being  taken  at  one  foot,  the  distance  of  Neptune  would 
be  forty  feet,  and  that  of  Alpha  Lyrae  one  hundred  and 
fifty-nine — miles;  that  is  to  say,  I  had  assigned  to 
Alpha  Lyrae,  in  my  first  statement  of  the  case,  only  the 
528oth  part  of  that  distance  which  is  the  least  distance 
possible  at  which  it  can  actually  lie. 

To  proceed :  However  distant  a  mere  planet  is,  yet 
when  we  look  at  it  through  a  telescope,  we  see  it  under 
a  certain  form,  of  a  certain  appreciable  size.  Now,  I 
have  already  hinted  at  the  probable  bulk  of  many  of 
the  stars;  nevertheless,  when  we  view  any  one  of 
them,  even  through  the  most  powerful  telescope,  it  is 
found  to  present  us  with  no  form,  and  consequently 
with  no  magnitude  whatever.  We  see  it  as  a  point  and 
nothing  more. 

292 


Eureka 

Again:  Let  us  suppose  ourselves  walking  at  night 
on  a  highway.  In  a  field  on  one  side  of  the  road  is  a 
line  of  tall  objects,  say  trees,  the  figures  of  which  are 
distinctly  defined  against  the  background  of  the  sky. 
This  line  of  objects  extends  at  right  angles  to  the  road, 
and  from  the  road  to  the  horizon.  Now,  as  we  proceed 
along  the  road,  we  see  these  objects  changing  their 
positions,  respectively,  in  relation  to  a  certain  fixed 
point  in  that  portion  of  the  firmament  which  forms  the 
background  of  the  view.  Let  us  suppose  this  fixed 
point,  sufficiently  fixed  for  our  purpose,  to  be  the  rising 
moon.  We  become  aware  at  once  that  while  the  tree 
nearest  us  so  far  alters  its  position  hi  respect  to  the 
moon  as  to  seem  flying  behind  us,  the  tree  in  the 
extreme  distance  has  scarcely  changed  at  all  its  rela 
tive  position  with  the  satellite.  We  then  go  on  to 
perceive  that  the  farther  the  objects  are  from  us  the 
less  they  alter  their  positions ;  and  the  converse.  Then 
we  begin  unwittingly  to  estimate  the  distances  of  in 
dividual  trees  by  the  degrees  in  which  they  evince  the 
relative  alteration.  Finally,  we  come  to  understand 
how  it  might  be  possible  to  ascertain  the  actual  dis 
tance  of  any  given  tree  in  the  line  by  using  the  amount 
of  relative  alteration  as  a  basis  in  a  simple  geometrical 
problem.  Now,  this  relative  alteration  is  what  we  call 
"  parallax  " ;  and  by  parallax  we  calculate  the  dis 
tances  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  Applying  the  principle 
to  the  trees  in  question,  we  should,  of  course,  be  very 
~.  293 


Eureka 

much  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  distance  of  that  tree, 
which,  however  far  we  proceeded  along  the  road, 
should  evince  no  parallax  at  all.  This,  in  the  case 
described,  is  a  thing  impossible;  but  impossible  only 
because  all  distances  on  our  earth  are  trivial  indeed; 
in  comparison  with  the  vast  cosmical  quantities  we  may 
speak  of  them  as  absolutely  nothing. 

Now,  let  us  suppose  the  star  Alpha  Lyrse  directly 
overhead;  and  let  us  imagine  that,  instead  of  stand 
ing  on  the  earth,  we  stand  at  one  end  of  a  straight 
road  stretching  through  space  to  a  distance  equalling 
the  diameter  of  the  earth's  orbit,  that  is  to  say,  to  a 
distance  of  one  hundred  and  ninety  millions  of  miles. 
Having  observed,  by  means  of  the  most  delicate  micro- 
metrical  instruments,  the  exact  position  of  the  star,  let 
us  now  pass  along  this  inconceivable  road  until  we 
reach  the  other  extremity.  Now,  once  again,  let  us 
look  at  the  star.  It  is  precisely  where  we  left  it.  Our 
instruments,  however  delicate,  assure  us  that  its  rela 
tive  position  is  absolutely,  is  identically  the  same,  as  at 
the  commencement  of  our  unutterable  journey.  No 
parallax,  none  whatever,  has  been  found. 

The  fact  is  that,  in  regard  to  the  distance  of  the  fixed 
stars, — of  any  one  of  the  myriads  of  suns  glistening  on 
the  farther  side  of  that  awful  chasm  which  separates 
our  system  from  its  brothers  in  the  cluster  to  which  it 
belongs, — astronomical  science,  until  very  lately,  could 
speak  only  with  a  negative  certainty.  Assuming  the 

294 


Eureka 

brightest  as  the  nearest,  we  could  say,  even  of  them, 
only  that  there  is  a  certain  incomprehensible  distance 
on  the  hither  side  of  which  they  cannot  be ;  how  far 
they  are  beyond  it  we  had  in  no  case  been  able  to  ascer 
tain.  We  perceived,  for  example,  that  Alpha  Lyrae 
cannot  be  nearer  to  us  than  19  trillions,  200  billions,  of 
miles;  but  for  all  we  knew,  and,  indeed,  for  all  we 
now  know,  it  may  be  distant  from  us  the  square,  or 
the  cube,  or  any  other  power  of  the  number  mentioned. 
By  dint,  however,  of  wonderfully  minute  and  cautious 
observations,  continued,  with  novel  instruments,  for 
many  laborious  years,  Bessel,  not  long  ago  deceased, 
has  lately  succeeded  in  determining  the  distance  of  six 
or  seven  stars;  among  others,  that  of  the  star  num 
bered  6 1  in  the  constellation  of  the  Swan.  The  dis 
tance  in  this  latter  instance  ascertained  is  670,000 
times  that  of  the  sun,  which  last,  it  will  be  remem 
bered,  is  95  millions  of  miles.  The  star  61  Cygni,  then, 
is  nearly  64  trillions  of  miles  from  us,  or  more  than 
three  times  the  distance  assigned,  as  the  least  possible, 
for  Alpha  Lyrae. 

In  attempting  to  appreciate  this  interval  by  the  aid 
of  any  considerations  of  velocity,  as  we  did  in  endeav 
oring  to  estimate  the  distance  of  the  moon,  we  must 
leave  out  of  sight,  altogether,  such  nothings  as  the 
speed  of  a  cannon-ball  or  of  sound.  Light,  however, 
according  to  the  latest  calculations  of  Struve,  proceeds 
at  the  rate  of  167,000  miles  in  a  second.  Thought 

295 


Eureka 

itself  cannot  pass  through  this  interval  more  speedily, 
if,  indeed,  thought  can  traverse  it  at  all.  Yet,  in  com 
ing  from  6 1  Cygni  to  us,  even  at  this  inconceivable 
rate,  light  occupies  more  than  ten  years;  and,  conse 
quently,  were  the  star  this  moment  blotted  out  from 
the  universe,  still,  for  ten  years,  would  it  continue  to 
sparkle  on,  undimmed  in  its  paradoxical  glory. 

Keeping  now  in  mind  whatever  feeble  conception  we 
may  have  attained  of  the  interval  between  our  sun  and 
6 1  Cygni,  let  us  remember  that  this  interval,  however 
unutterably  vast,  we  are  permitted  to  consider  as  but 
the  average  interval  among  the  countless  hosts  of  stars 
composing  that  cluster,  or  "  nebula,"  to  which  our 
system,  as  well  as  that  of  61  Cygni,  belongs.  I  have, 
in  fact,  stated  the  case  with  great  moderation:  we 
have  excellent  reason  for  believing  61  Cygni  to  be  one 
of  the  nearest  stars,  and  thus  for  concluding,  at  least 
for  the  present,  that  its  distance  from  us  is  less  than 
the  average  distance  between  star  and  star  in  the  mag 
nificent  cluster  of  the  Milky  Way. 

And  here,  once  again  and  finally,  it  seems  proper  to 
suggest  that  even  as  yet  we  have  been  speaking  of 
trifles.  Ceasing  to  wonder  at  the  space  between  star 
and  star  in  our  own  or  in  any  particular  cluster,  let  us 
rather  turn  our  thoughts  to  the  intervals  between  clus 
ter  and  cluster,  in  the  all-comprehensive  cluster  of  the 
universe. 

I  have  already  said  that  light  proceeds  at  the  rate  of 
296 


Eureka 

167,000  miles  in  a  second,  that  is,  about  ten  millions 
of  miles  in  a  minute,  or  about  600  millions  of  miles  in 
an  hour ;  yet  so  far  removed  from  us  are  some  of  the 
"  nebulae  "  that  even  light,  speeding  with  this  velocity, 
could  not  and  does  not  reach  us  from  those  mysterious 
regions  in  less  than  three  millions  of  years.  This  cal 
culation,  moreover,  is  made  by  the  elder  Herschel,  and 
in  reference  merely  to  those  comparatively  proximate 
clusters  within  the  scope  of  his  own  telescope.  There 
are  "  nebula?,"  however,  which,  through  the  magical 
tube  of  Lord  Rosse,  are  this  instant  whispering  in  our 
ears  the  secrets  of  a  million  of  ages  bygone.  In  a 
word,  the  events  which  we  behold  now,  at  this  mo 
ment,  in  those  worlds,  are  the  identical  events  which 
interested  their  inhabitants  ten  hundred  thousand  cent 
uries  ago.  In  intervals,  in  distances  such  as  this  sug 
gestion  forces  upon  the  soul,  rather  than  upon  the 
mind,  we  find  at  length  a  fitting  climax  to  all  hitherto 
frivolous  considerations  of  quantity. 

Our  fancies  thus  occupied  with  the  cosmical  dis 
tances,  let  us  take  the  opportunity  of  referring  to  the 
difficulty  which  we  have  so  often  experienced,  while 
pursuing  the  beaten  path  of  astronomical  reflection,  in 
accounting  for  the  immeasurable  voids  alluded  to,  in 
comprehending  why  chasms  so  totally  unoccupied  and 
therefore  apparently  so  needless  have  been  made  to 
intervene  between  star  and  star,  between  cluster  and 
cluster;  in  understanding,  to  be  brief,  a  sufficient 

297 


Eureka 

reason  for  the  Titanic  scale,  in  respect  of  mere  space, 
on  which  the  universe  is  seen  to  be  constructed.  A 
rational  cause  for  the  phenomenon,  I  maintain  that 
astronomy  has  palpably  failed  to  assign;  but  the  con 
siderations  through  which,  in  this  essay,  we  have  pro 
ceeded  step  by  step  enable  us  clearly  and  immediately 
to  perceive  that  space  and  duration  are  one.  That  the 
universe  might  endure  throughout  an  era  at  all  com 
mensurate  with  the  grandeur  of  its  component  mater 
ial  portions  and  with  the  high  majesty  of  its  spiritual 
purposes,  it  was  necessary  that  the  original  atomic 
diffusion  be  made  to  so  inconceivable  an  extent  as  to  be 
only  not  infinite.  It  was  required,  in  a  word,  that  the 
stars  should  be  gathered  into  visibility  from  invisible 
nebulosity,  proceed  from  nebulosity  to  consolidation, 
and  so  grow  gray  in  giving  birth  and  death  to  un 
speakably  numerous  and  complex  variations  of  vitalic 
development ;  it  was  required  that  the  stars  should  do 
all  this,  should  have  time  thoroughly  to  accomplish  all 
these  Divine  purposes,  during  the  period  in  which  all 
things  were  effecting  their  return  into  unity  with  a 
velocity  accumulating  in  the  inverse  proportion  of  the 
squares  of  the  distances  at  which  lay  the  inevitable  end. 
Throughout  all  this  we  have  no  difficulty  in  under 
standing  the  absolute  accuracy  of  the  Divine  adapta 
tion.  The  density  of  the  stars,  respectively,  proceeds, 
of  course,  as  their  condensation  diminishes ;  condensa 
tion  and  heterogeneity  keep  pace  with  each  other; 

298 


Eureka 

through  the  latter,  which  is  the  index  of  the  former, 
we  estimate  the  vitalic  and  spiritual  development. 
Thus,  in  the  density  of  the  globes,  we  have  the  measure 
in  which  their  purposes  are  fulfilled.  As  density  pro 
ceeds,  as  the  Divine  intentions  are  accomplished,  as 
less  and  still  less  remains  to  be  accomplished,  so,  in  the 
same  ratio,  should  we  expect  to  find  an  acceleration  of 
the  end;  and  thus  the  philosophical  mind  will  easily 
comprehend  that  the  Divine  designs  in  constituting  the 
stars  advance  mathematically  to  their  fulfilment ;  and 
more,  it  will  readily  give  the  advance  a  mathematical 
expression ;  it  will  decide  that  this  advance  is  inversely 
proportional  with  the  squares  of  the  distances  of  all 
created  things  from  the  starting-point  and  goal  of  their 
creation. 

Not  only  is  this  Divine  adaptation,  however,  mathe 
matically  accurate,  but  there  is  that  about  it  which 
stamps  it  as  Divine,  in  distinction  from  that  which  is 
merely  the  work  of  human  constructiveness.  I  allude 
to  the  complete  mutuality  of  adaptation.  For  ex 
ample,  in  human  constructions  a  particular  cause  has 
a  particular  effect;  a  particular  intention  brings  to 
pass  a  particular  object;  but  this  is  all;  we  see  no 
reciprocity.  The  effect  does  not  react  upon  the  cause ; 
the  intention  does  not  change  relations  with  the  ob 
ject.  In  Divine  constructions  the  object  is  either  de 
sign  or  object  as  we  choose  to  regard  it,  and  we  may 
take  at  anytime  a  cause  for  an  effect,  or  the  converse, 

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so  that  we  can  never  absolutely  decide  which  is  which. 
To  give  an  instance:  In  polar  climates  the  human 
frame,  to  maintain  its  animal  heat,  requires,  for  com 
bustion  in  the  capillary  system,  an  abundant  supply  of 
highly  azotized  food,  such  as  train-oil.  But  again,  hi 
polar  climates  nearly  the  sole  food  afforded  man  is  the 
oil  of  abundant  seals  and  whales.  Now,  whether  is 
oil  at  hand  because  imperatively  demanded,  or  the  only 
thing  demanded  because  the  only  thing  to  be  obtained  ? 
It  is  impossible  to  decide.  There  is  an  absolute  reci 
procity  of  adaptation. 

The  pleasure  which  we  derive  from  any  display  of 
human  ingenuity  is  in  the  ratio  of  the  approach  to  this 
species  of  reciprocity.  In  the  construction  of  plot,  for 
example,  in  fictitious  literature,  we  should  aim  at  so 
arranging  the  incidents  that  we  shall  not  be  able  to  de 
termine,  of  any  one  of  them,  whether  it  depends  from 
any  one  other  or  upholds  it.  In  this  sense,  of  course, 
perfection  of  plot  is  really,  or  practically,  unattainable, 
but  only  because  it  is  a  finite  intelligence  that  con 
structs.  The  plots  of  God  are  perfect.  The  universe 
is  a  plot  of  God. 

And  now  we  have  reached  a  point  at  which  the  in 
tellect  is  forced,  again,  to  struggle  against  its  propen 
sity  for  analogical  inference,  against  its  monomaniac 
grasping  at  the  infinite.  Moons  have  been  seen  re 
volving  about  planets;  planets  about  stars;  and  the 
poetical  instinct  of  humanity,  its  instinct  of  the  sym- 

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metrical,  if  the  symmetry  be  but  a  symmetry  of  surface, 
— this  instinct,  which  the  soul,  not  only  of  man  but  of 
all  created  beings,  took  up,  in  the  beginning,  from  the 
geometrical  basis  of  the  universal  irradiation,  impels 
us  to  the  fancy  of  an  endless  extension  of  this  system 
of  cycles.  Closing  our  eyes  equally  to  deduction  and 
induction,  we  insist  upon  imagining  a  revolution  of  all 
the  orbs  of  the  Galaxy  about  some  gigantic  globe  which 
we  take  to  be  the  central  pivot  of  the  whole.  Each 
cluster  in  the  great  cluster  of  clusters  is  imagined,  of 
course,  to  be  similarly  supplied  and  constructed ;  while, 
that  the  "  analogy  "  may  be  wanting  at  no  point,  we 
go  on  to  conceive  these  clusters  themselves,  again,  as 
revolving  around  some  still  more  august  sphere;  this 
latter,  still  again,  with  its  encircling  clusters,  as  but 
one  of  a  yet  more  magnificent  series  of  agglomerations, 
gyrating  about  yet  another  orb  central  to  them,  some 
orb  still  more  unspeakably  sublime,  some  orb,  let  us 
rather  say,  of  infinite  sublimity  endlessly  multiplied  by 
the  infinitely  sublime.  Such  are  the  conditions,  con 
tinued  in  perpetuity,  which  the  voice  of  what  some 
people  term  "  analogy  "  calls  upon  the  fancy  to  depict 
and  the  reason  to  contemplate,  if  possible,  without 
becoming  dissatisfied  with  the  picture.  Such,  in  gen 
eral,  are  the  interminable  gyrations  beyond  gyration 
which  we  have  been  instructed  by  philosophy  to  com 
prehend  and  to  account  for,  at  least  in  the  best  manner 
we  can.  Now  and  then,  however,  a  philosopher  proper, 

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one  whose  frenzy  takes  a  very  determinate  turn,  whose 
genius,  to  speak  more  reverentially,  has  a  strongly 
pronounced  washer-womanish  bias,  doing  everything 
up  by  the  dozen,  enables  us  to  see  precisely  that  point 
out  of  sight  at  which  the  revolutionary  processes  in 
question  do,  and  of  right  ought  to,  come  to  an  end. 

It  is  hardly  worth  while,  perhaps,  even  to  sneer  at 
the  reveries  of  Fourier,  but  much  has  been  said  lat 
terly  of  the  hypothesis  of  Madler,  that  there  exists,  in 
the  centre  of  the  Galaxy,  a  stupendous  globe  about 
which  all  the  systems  of  the  cluster  revolve.  The 
period  of  our  own,  indeed,  has  been  stated — 117  mil 
lions  of  years. 

That  our  sun  has  a  motion  in  space,  independently  of 
its  rotation  and  revolution  about  the  system's  centre 
of  gravity,  has  long  been  suspected.  This  motion, 
granting  it  to  exist,  would  be  manifested  perspectively. 
The  stars  in  that  firmamental  region  which  we  were 
leaving  behind  us  would,  in  a  very  long  series  of  years, 
become  crowded;  those  in  the  opposite  quarter  scat 
tered.  Now,  by  means  of  astronomical  history,  we 
ascertain,  cloudily,  that  some  such  phenomena  have 
occurred.  On  this  ground  it  has  been  declared  that 
our  system  is  moving  to  a  point  in  the  heavens  dia 
metrically  opposite  the  star  Zeta  Herculis ;  but  this  in 
ference  is,  perhaps,  the  maximum  to  which  we  have 
any  logical  right.  Madler,  however,  has  gone  so  far 
as  to  designate  a  particular  star,  Alcyone  in  the  Plei- 

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ades,  as  being  at  or  about  the  very  spot  around  which 
a  general  revolution  is  performed. 

Now,  since  by  "  analogy  "  we  are  led,  in  the  first 
instance,  to  these  dreams,  it  is  no  more  than  proper 
that  we  should  abide  by  analogy,  at  least  in  some 
measure,  during  their  development ;  and  that  analogy 
which  suggests  the  revolution  suggests  at  the  same 
time  a  central  orb  about  which  it  should  be  performed ; 
so  far  the  astronomer  was  consistent.  This  central 
orb,  however,  should,  dynamically,  be  greater  than  all 
the  orbs  taken  together  which  surround  it.  Of  these 
there  are  about  100  millions.  "  Why,  then,"  it  was 
of  course  demanded,  "  do  we  not  see  this  vast  central 
sun, — at  least  equal  in  mass  to  100  millions  of  such 
suns  as  ours;  why  do  we  not  see  it — we,  especially, 
who  occupy  the  mid  region  of  the  cluster,  the  very 
locality  near  which,  at  all  events,  must  be  situated  this 
incomparable  star  ?  "  The  reply  was  ready :  "  It  must 
be  non-luminous,  as  are  our  planets."  Here,  then,  to 
suit  a  purpose,  analogy  is  suddenly  let  fall.  "  Not  so," 
it  may  be  said,  "  we  know  that  non-luminous  suns 
actually  exist."  It  is  true  that  we  have  reason  at 
least  for  supposing  so ;  but  we  have  certainly  no  reason 
whatever  for  supposing  that  the  non-luminous  suns  in 
question  are  encircled  by  luminous  suns,  while  these 
again  are  surrounded  by  non-luminous  planets ;  and  it 
is  precisely  all  this  with  which  Madler  is  called  upon 
to  find  anything  analogous  in  the  heavens,  for  it  is 

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precisely  all  this  which  he  imagines  in  the  case  of  the 
Galaxy.  Admitting  the  thing  to  be  so,  we  cannot 
help  here  picturing  to  ourselves  how  sad  a  puzzle  the 
"  why  it  is  so  "  must  prove  to  all  a  priori  philosophers. 

But,  granting  in  the  very  teeth  of  analogy  and  of 
everything  else  the  non-luminosity  of  the  vast  central 
orb,  we  may  still  inquire  how  this  orb,  so  enormous, 
could  fail  of  being  rendered  visible  by  the  flood  of 
light  thrown  upon  it  from  the  100  millions  of  glorious 
suns  glaring  in  all  directions  about  it.  Upon  the 
urging  of  this  question,  the  idea  of  an  actually  solid 
central  sun  appears  in  some  measure  to  have  been 
abandoned;  and  speculation  proceeded  to  assert  that 
the  systems  of  the  cluster  perform  their  revolutions 
merely  about  an  immaterial  centre  of  gravity  common 
to  all.  Here,  again,  then,  to  suit  a  purpose,  analogy  is 
let  fall.  The  planets  of  our  system  revolve,  it  is  true, 
about  a  common  centre  of  gravity ;  but  they  do  this  in 
connection  with,  and  in  consequence  of,  a  material  sun 
whose  mass  more  than  counterbalances  the  rest  of  the 
system. 

The  mathematical  circle  is  a  curve  composed  of  an 
infinity  of  straight  lines.  But  this  idea  of  the  circle, 
an  idea  which,  in  view  of  all  ordinary  geometry,  is 
merely  the  mathematical  as  contradistinguished  from 
the  practical  idea,  is,  in  sober  fact,  the  practical  con 
ception  which  alone  we  have  any  right  to  entertain  in 
regard  to  the  majestic  circle  with  which  we  have  to 

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deal,  at  least  in  fancy,  when  we  suppose  our  system 
revolving  about  a  point  in  the  centre  of  the  Galaxy. 
Let  the  most  vigorous  of  human  imaginations  attempt 
to  take  but  a  single  step  toward  the  comprehension  of 
a  sweep  so  ineffable!  It  would  scarcely  be  paradoxi 
cal  to  say  that  a  flash  of  lightning  itself,  travelling 
forever  upon  the  circumference  of  this  unutterable 
circle,  would  still  forever  be  travelling  in  a  straight 
line.  That  the  path  of  our  sun  in  such  an  orbit  would, 
to  any  human  perception,  deviate  in  the  slightest  de 
gree  from  a  straight  line,  even  in  a  million  of  years,  is 
a  proposition  not  to  be  entertained;  yet  we  are  re 
quired  to  believe  that  a  curvature  has  become  apparent 
during  the  brief  period  of  our  astronomical  history — 
during  a  mere  point — during  the  utter  nothingness  of 
two  or  three  thousand  years. 

It  may  be  said  that  Madler  has  really  ascertained  a 
curvature  in  the  direction  of  our  system's  now  well- 
established  progress  through  space.  Admitting,  if 
necessary,  this  fact  to  be  in  reality  such,  I  maintain 
that  nothing  is  thereby  shown  except  the  reality  of  this 
fact,  the  fact  of  a  curvature.  For  its  thorough  deter 
mination  ages  will  be  required ;  and,  when  determined, 
it  will  be  found  indicative  of  some  binary  or  other 
multiple  relation  between  our  sun  and  some  one  or 
more  of  the  proximate  stars.  I  hazard  nothing,  how 
ever,  in  predicting  that  after  the  lapse  of  many  cen 
turies,  all  efforts  at  determining  the  path  of  our  sun 

VOL.  X.-20.  305 


Eureka 

through  space  will  be  abandoned  as  fruitless.  This  is 
easily  conceivable  when  we  look  at  the  infinity  of  per 
turbation  it  must  experience,  from  its  perpetually 
shifting  relations  with  other  orbs,  in  the  common 
approach  of  all  to  the  nucleus  of  the  Galaxy. 

But  in  examining  other  "  nebulae  "  than  that  of  the 
Milky  Way,  in  surveying,  generally,  the  clusters  which 
overspread  the  heavens,  do  we  or  do  we  not  find  con 
firmation  of  Madler's  hypothesis  ?  We  do  not.  The 
forms  of  the  clusters  are  exceedingly  diverse  when 
casually  viewed;  but  on  close  inspection  through 
powerful  telescopes,  we  recognize  the  sphere  very  dis 
tinctly  as  at  least  the  proximate  form  of  all ;  their  con 
stitution  in  general  being  at  variance  with  the  idea  of 
revolution  about  a  common  centre. 

"  It  is  difficult,"  says  Sir  John  Herschel,  "  to  form 
any  conception  of  the  dynamical  state  of  such  systems. 
On  one  hand,  without  a  rotary  motion  and  a  centri 
fugal  force,  it  is  hardly  possible  not  to  regard  them  as 
in  a  state  of  progressive  collapse.  On  the  other,  grant 
ing  such  a  motion  and  such  a  force,  we  find  it  no  less 
difficult  to  reconcile  their  forms  with  the  rotation  of  the 
whole  system  [meaning  cluster]  around  any  single  axis, 
without  which  internal  collision  would  appear  to  be 
inevitable." 

Some  remarks  lately  made  about  the  "  nebulas  "  by 
Dr.  Nichol,  in  taking  quite  a  different  view  of  the  cos- 
mical  conditions  from  any  taken  in  this  discourse,  have 

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a  very  peculiar  applicability  to  the  point  now  at  issue. 
He  says : 

"  When  our  greatest  telescopes  are  brought  to  bear 
upon  them,  we  find  that  those  which  were  thought  to 
be  irregular  are  not  so;  they  approach  nearer  to  a 
globe.  Here  is  one  that  looked  oval ;  but  Lord  Rosse's 
telescope  brought  it  into  a  circle.  .  .  .  Now,  there 
occurs  a  very  remarkable  circumstance  in  reference 
to  these  comparatively  sweeping  circular  masses  of 
nebulae.  We  find  they  are  not  entirely  circular, 
but  the  reverse ;  and  that  all  around  them  on  every 
side  there  are  volumes  of  stars,  stretching  out  appar 
ently  as  if  they  were  rushing  toward  a  great  central 
mass  in  consequence  of  the  action  of  some  great 
power."  x 

Were  I  to  describe,  in  my  own  words,  what  must 
necessarily  be  the  existing  condition  of  each  nebula  on 
the  hypothesis  that  all  matter  is,  as  I  suggest,  now  re 
turning  to  its  original  unity,  I  should  simply  be  going 
over,  nearly  verbatim,  the  language  here  employed  by 
Dr.  Nichol,  without  the  faintest  suspicion  of  that  stu 
pendous  truth  which  is  the  key  to  these  nebular  phe 
nomena. 

And  here  let  me  fortify  my  position  still  further  by 
the  voice  of  a  greater  than  Madler, — of  one,  moreover, 

1 1  must  be  understood  as  denying,  especially,  only  the  revolutionary  por 
tion  of  Mk'dler's  hypothesis.  Of  course,  if  no  great  central  orb  exists  now  in 
our  cluster,  such  will  exist  hereafter.  Whenever  existing,  it  will  be  merely 
the  nucleus  of  the  consolidation. 

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to  whom  all  the  data  of  Madler  have  long  been  familiar 
things,  carefully  and  thoroughly  considered.  Refer 
ring  to  the  elaborate  calculations  of  Argelander, — the 
very  researches  which  form  Madler's  basis, — Hum- 
boldt,  whose  generalizing  powers  have  never,  perhaps, 
been  equalled,  has  the  following  observation : 

"  When  we  regard  the  real,  proper,  or  non-perspec 
tive  motions  of  the  stars,  we  find  many  groups  of  them 
moving  in  opposite  directions ;  and  the  data  as  yet  in 
hand  render  it  not  necessary,  at  least,  to  conceive  that 
the  systems  composing  the  Milky  Way,  or  the  clusters 
generally  composing  the  universe,  are  revolving  about 
any  particular  centre  unknown,  whether  luminous  or 
non-luminous.  It  is  but  man's  longing  for  a  funda 
mental  First  Cause  that  impels  both  his  intellect  and 
fancy  to  the  adoption  of  such  an  hypothesis."  * 

The  phenomenon  here  alluded  to,  that  of  "  many 
groups  moving  in  opposite  directions,"  is  quite  inex 
plicable  by  Madler's  idea;  but  arises,  as  a  necessary 
consequence,  from  that  which  forms  the  basis  of  this 
discourse.  While  the  merely  general  direction  of  each 
atom — of  each  moon,  planet,  star,  or  cluster — would, 


1  Betrachtet  man  die  nicht  perspectivischen  eigenen  Bewegungen  der  Sterne, 
so  scheinen  viele  gruppenweise  in  ihrer  Richtung  entgegengesetzt;  und  die 
bisher  gesammelten  Thatsachen  machen  es  auf  's  wenigste  nicht  nothwendig, 
anzunehmen,  dass  alle  Theile  unserer  Sternenschicht  oder  gar  der  gesammten 
Sterneninseln,  welche  den  Weltraum  fullen,  sich  um  einen  grossen,  unbe- 
kannten,  leuchtenden,  oder  dunkeln  Centralkorper  bewegen.  Das  Streben 
nach  den  letzen  und  hochsten  Grundursachen  macht  freilich  die  reflectirende 
Thatigkeit  des  Menschen,  wie  seine  Phantasie,  zu  einer  solchen  Annahme 
geneigt. 


Eureka 

on  my  hypothesis,  be,  of  course,  absolutely  rectilinear, 
while  the  general  path  of  all  bodies  would  be  a  right 
line  leading  to  the  centre  of  all ;  it  is  clear,  neverthe 
less,  that  this  general  rectilinearity  would  be  com 
pounded  of  what,  with  scarcely  any  exaggeration,  we 
may  term  an  infinity  of  particular  curves,  an  infinity 
of  local  deviations  from  rectilinearity,  the  result  of 
continuous  differences  of  relative  position  among  the 
multitudinous  masses,  as  each  proceeded  on  its  own 
proper  journey  to  the  end. 

I  quoted  just  now  from  Sir  John  Herschel  the  fol 
lowing  words,  used  in  reference  to  the  clusters :  "  On 
one  hand,  without  a  rotary  motion  and  a  centrifugal 
force,  it  is  hardly  possible  not  to  regard  them  as  in  a 
state  of  '  progressive  collapse.' "  The  fact  is,  that,  in 
surveying  the  "  nebulae  "  with  a  telescope  of  high 
power,  we  shall  find  it  quite  impossible,  having  once 
conceived  this  idea  of  "  collapse,"  not  to  gather  at  all 
points  corroboration  of  the  idea.  A  nucleus  is  always 
apparent  in  the  direction  of  which  the  stars  seem  to  be 
precipitating  themselves ;  nor  can  these  nuclei  be  mis 
taken  for  merely  perspective  phenomena;  the  clusters 
are  really  denser  near  the  centre,  sparser  in  the  regions 
more  remote  from  it.  In  a  word,  we  see  everything  as 
we  should  see  it  were  a  collapse  taking  place ;  but,  in 
general,  it  may  be  said  of  these  clusters  that  we  can 
fairly  entertain,  while  looking  at  them,  the  ideal  of 
orbital  movement  about  a  centre  only  by  admitting  the 

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possible  existence,  in  the  distant  domains  of  space,  of 
dynamical  laws  with  which  we  are  unacquainted. 

On  the  part  of  Herschel,  however,  there  is  evidently 
a  reluctance  to  regard  the  nebulae  as  in  "  a  state  of 
progressive  collapse."  But  if  facts, — if  even  appear 
ances  justify  the  supposition  of  their  being  in  this 
state,  why,  it  may  well  be  demanded,  is  he  disinclined 
to  admit  it  ?  Simply  on  account  of  a  prejudice ; 
merely  because  the  supposition  is  at  war  with  a  pre 
conceived  and  utterly  baseless  notion, — that  of  the 
endlessness,  that  of  the  eternal  stability  of  the  universe. 

If  the  propositions  of  this  discourse  are  tenable,  the 
"  state  of  progressive  collapse  "  is  precisely  that  state 
in  which  alone  we  are  warranted  in  considering  all 
things;  and,  with  due  humility,  let  me  here  confess 
that,  for  my  part,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive  how  any 
other  understanding  of  the  existing  condition  of  affairs 
could  ever  have  made  its  way  into  the  human  brain. 
"  The  tendency  to  collapse  "  and  "  the  attraction  of 
gravitation  "  are  convertible  phrases.  In  using  either 
we  speak  of  the  reaction  of  the  First  Act.  Never  was 
necessity  less  obvious  than  that  of  supposing  matter 
imbued  with  an  ineradicable  quality  forming  part  of 
its  material  nature — a  quality,  or  instinct,  forever  in 
separable  from  it,  and  by  dint  of  which  inalienable 
principle  every  atom  is  perpetually  impelled  to  seek  its 
fellow-atom.  Never  was  necessity  less  obvious  than 
that  of  entertaining  this  unphilosophical  idea.  Going 

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boldly  behind  the  vulgar  thought,  we  have  to  conceive, 
metaphysically,  that  the  gravitating  principle  apper 
tains  to  matter  temporarily,  only  while  diffused,  only 
while  existing  as  many  instead  of  as  one;  appertains 
to  it  by  virtue  of  its  state  of  irradiation  alone;  apper 
tains,  in  a  word,  altogether  to  its  condition,  and  not 
in  the  slightest  degree  to  itself.  In  this  view,  when  the 
irradiation  shall  have  returned  into  its  source,  when  the 
reaction  shall  be  completed,  the  gravitating  principle 
will  no  longer  exist.  And,  in  fact,  astronomers,  with 
out  at  any  time  reaching  the  idea  here  suggested,  seem 
to  have  been  approximating  it,  in  the  assertion  that "  if 
there  were  but  one  body  in  the  universe,  it  would  be 
impossible  to  understand  how  the  principle,  gravity, 
could  obtain  " ;  that  is  to  say,  from  a  consideration  of 
matter  as  they  find  it,  they  reach  a  conclusion  at  which 
I  deductively  arrive.  That  so  pregnant  a  suggestion  as 
the  one  quoted  should  have  been  permitted  to  remain 
so  long  unfruitful,  is,  nevertheless,  a  mystery  which  I 
find  it  difficult  to  fathom. 

It  is,  perhaps,  in  no  little  degree,  however,  our  pro 
pensity  for  the  continuous,  for  the  analogical,  in  the 
present  case  more  particularly  for  the  symmetrical, 
which  has  been  leading  us  astray.  And,  in  fact,  the 
sense  of  the  symmetrical  is  an  instinct  which  may  be 
depended  upon  with  an  almost  blindfold  reliance.  It 
is  the  poetical  essence  of  the  universe — of  the  universe 
which,  in  the  supremeness  of  its  symmetry,  is  but  the 


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most  sublime  of  poems.  Now,  symmetry  and  consis 
tency  are  convertible  terms ;  thus  poetry  and  truth  are 
one.  A  thing  is  consistent  in  the  ratio  of  its  truth, 
true  in  the  ratio  of  its  consistency.  A  perfect  con 
sistency,  I  repeat,  can  be  nothing  but  an  absolute  truth. 
We  may  take  it  for  granted,  then,  that  man  cannot 
long  or  widely  err  if  he  suffer  himself  to  be  guided  by 
his  poetical,  which  I  have  maintained  to  be  his  truth 
ful,  in  being  his  symmetrical,  instinct.  He  must  have 
a  care,  however,  lest,  in  pursuing  too  heedlessly  the 
superficial  symmetry  of  forms  and  motions,  he  leave 
out  of  sight  the  really  essential  symmetry  of  the  prin 
ciples  which  determine  and  control  them. 

That  the  stellar  bodies  would  finally  be  merged  in 
one,  that,  at  last,  all  would  be  drawn  into  the  sub 
stance  of  one  stupendous  central  orb  already  existing, 
is  an  idea  which,  for  some  time  past,  seems  vaguely 
and  indeterminately  to  have  held  possession  of  the 
fancy  of  mankind.  It  is  an  idea,  in  fact,  which  be 
longs  to  the  class  of  the  excessively  obvious.  It  springs 
instantly  from  a  superficial  observation  of  the  cyclic 
and  seemingly  gyrating  or  vortical  movements  of 
those  individual  portions  of  the  universe  which  come 
most  immediately  and  most  closely  under  our  observa 
tion.  There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  human  being,  of  ordi 
nary  education  and  of  average  reflective  capacity,  to 
whom,  at  some  period,  the  fancy  in  question  has  not 
occurred,  as  if  spontaneously,  or  intuitively,  and  wear- 

312 


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ing  all  the  character  of  a  very  profound  and  very 
original  conception.  This  conception,  however,  so 
commonly  entertained,  has  never,  within  my  know 
ledge,  arisen  out  of  any  abstract  considerations.  Being, 
on  the  contrary,  always  suggested,  as  I  say,  by  the 
vortical  movements  about  centres,  a  reason  for  it, 
also,  a  cause  for  the  ingathering  of  all  the  orbs  into 
one,  imagined  to  be  already  existing,  was  naturally 
sought  in  the  same  direction  among  these  cyclic  move 
ments  themselves. 

Thus  it  happened  that,  on  announcement  of  the 
gradual  and  perfectly  regular  decrease  observed  in  the 
orbit  of  Encke's  comet  at  every  successive  revolution 
about  our  sun,  astronomers  were  nearly  unanimous  in 
the  opinion  that  the  cause  in  question  was  found;  that 
a  principle  was  discovered  sufficient  to  account,  physi 
cally,  for  that  final,  universal  agglomeration  which, 
I  repeat,  the  analogical,  symmetrical,  or  poetical  in 
stinct  of  man  had  predetermined  to  understand  as 
something  more  than  a  simple  hypothesis. 

This  cause,  this  sufficient  reason  for  the  final  in 
gathering,  was  declared  to  exist  in  an  exceedingly  rare, 
but  still  material  medium  pervading  space;  which 
medium,  by  retarding,  in  some  degree,  the  progress  of 
the  comet,  perpetually  weakened  its  tangential  force, 
thus  giving  a  predominance  to  the  centripetal,  which,  of 
course,  drew  the  comet  nearer  and  nearer  at  each  revo 
lution,  and  would  eventually  precipitate  it  upon  the  sun. 


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All  this  was  strictly  logical,  admitting  the  medium  or 
ether;  but  this  ether  was  assumed,  most  illogically,  on 
the  ground  that  no  other  mode  than  the  one  spoken  of 
could  be  discovered  of  accounting  for  the  observed 
decrease  in  the  orbit  of  the  comet ;  as  if,  from  the  fact 
that  we  could  discover  no  other  mode  of  accounting 
for  it,  it  followed,  in  any  respect,  that  no  other  mode 
of  accounting  for  it  existed.  It  is  clear  that  innumer 
able  causes  might  operate,  in  combination,  to  dimin 
ish  the  orbit,  without  even  a  possibility  of  our  ever 
becoming  acquainted  with  one  of  them.  In  the  mean 
time,  it  has  never  been  fairly  shown,  perhaps,  why  the 
retardation  occasioned  by  the  skirts  of  the  sun's  atmos 
phere,  through  which  the  comet  passes  at  perihelion, 
is  not  enough  to  account  for  the  phenomenon.  That 
Encke's  comet  will  be  absorbed  into  the  sun  is  prob 
able;  that  all  the  comets  of  the  system  will  be  ab 
sorbed  is  more  than  merely  possible ;  but,  in  such  case, 
the  principle  of  absorption  must  be  referred  to  eccen 
tricity  of  orbit,  to  the  close  approximation  to  the  sun, 
of  the  comets  at  their  perihelia ;  and  is  a  principle  not 
affecting  in  any  degree  the  ponderous  spheres  which 
are  to  be  regarded  as  the  true  material  constituents  of 
the  universe.  Touching  comets  in  general,  let  me  here 
suggest,  in  passing,  that  we  cannot  be  far  wrong  in 
looking  upon  them  as  the  lightning  flashes  of  the  cos- 
mica!  heaven. 

The  idea  of  a  retarding  ether,  and,  through  it,  of  a 


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final  agglomeration  of  all  things,  seemed  at  one  time, 
however,  to  be  confirmed  by  the  observation  of  a  posi 
tive  decrease  in  the  orbit  of  the  solid  moon.  By  refer 
ence  to  eclipses  recorded  2500  years  ago,  it  was  found 
that  the  velocity  of  the  satellite's  revolution  then 
was  considerably  less  than  it  is  now;  that  on  the 
hypothesis  that  its  motion  in  its  orbit  is  uniformly 
in  accordance  with  Kepler's  law,  and  was  accurately  de 
termined  then, — 2500  years  ago, — it  is  nowin  advance 
of  the  position  it  should  occupy  by  nearly  9000  miles. 
The  increase  of  velocity  proved,  of  course,  a  diminu 
tion  of  orbit ;  and  astronomers  were  fast  yielding  to  a 
belief  in  an  ether  as  the  sole  mode  of  accounting  for 
the  phenomenon,  when  Lagrange  came  to  the  rescue. 
He  showed  that,  owing  to  the  configurations  of  the 
spheroids,  the  shorter  axes  of  their  ellipses  are  subject 
to  variation  in  length,  the  longer  axes  being  perma 
nent  ;  and  that  this  variation  is  continuous  and  vibra 
tory,  so  that  every  orbit  is  in  a  state  of  transition, 
either  from  circle  to  ellipse  or  from  ellipse  to  circle. 
In  the  case  of  the  moon,  where  the  shorter  axis  is  de 
creasing,  the  orbit  is  passing  from  circle  to  ellipse,  and, 
consequently,  is  decreasing  too;  but,  after  a  long 
series  of  ages,  the  ultimate  eccentricity  will  be  at 
tained;  then  the  shorter  axis  will  proceed  to  increase 
until  the  orbit  becomes  a  circle,  when  the  process  of 
shortening  will  again  take  place;  and  so  on  forever. 
In  the  case  of  the  earth,  the  orbit  is  passing  from  ellipse 


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to  circle.  The  facts  thus  demonstrated  do  away,  of 
course,  with  all  necessity  for  supposing  an  ether,  and 
with  all  apprehension  of  the  system's  instability  on 
the  ether's  account. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  I  have  myself  assumed 
what  we  may  term  "  an  ether."  I  have  spoken  of  a 
subtle  influence  which  we  know  to  be  ever  in  attend 
ance  upon  matter,  although  becoming  manifest  only 
through  matter's  heterogeneity.  To  this  influence, 
without  daring  to  touch  it  at  all  hi  any  effort  at  ex 
plaining  its  awful  nature,  I  have  referred  the  various 
phenomena  of  electricity,  heat,  light,  magnetism ;  and, 
more,  of  vitality,  consciousness,  and  thought — in  a 
word,  of  spirituality.  It  will  be  seen  at  once,  then, 
that  the  ether  thus  conveyed  is  radically  distinct  from 
the  ether  of  the  astronomers,  inasmuch  as  theirs  is 
matter  and  mine  not. 

With  the  idea  of  material  ether,  seems,  thus,  to  have 
departed  altogether  the  thought  of  that  universal  ag 
glomeration  so  long  predetermined  by  the  poetical 
fancy  of  mankind, — an  agglomeration  in  which  a 
sound  philosophy  might  have  been  warranted  in  put 
ting  faith,  at  least  to  a  certain  extent,  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  by  this  poetical  fancy  it  had  been  so 
predetermined.  But  so  far  as  astronomy,  so  far  as 
mere  physics,  have  yet  spoken,  the  cycles  of  the  uni 
verse  have  no  conceivable  end.  Had  an  end  been 
demonstrated,  however,  from  so  purely  collateral  a 


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cause  as  an  ether,  man's  instinct  of  the  Divine  capacity 
to  adapt  would  have  rebelled  against  the  demonstra 
tion.  We  should  have  been  forced  to  regard  the  uni 
verse  with  some  such  sense  of  dissatisfaction  as  we 
experience  in  contemplating  an  unnecessary  complex 
work  of  human  art.  Creation  would  have  affected  us 
as  an  imperfect  plot  in  a  romance,  where  the  denoue' 
ment  is  awkwardly  brought  about  by  interposed 
incidents  external  and  foreign  to  the  main  subject,  in 
stead  of  springing  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  thesis, — out 
of  the  heart  of  the  ruling  idea ;  instead  of  arising  as  a 
result  of  the  primary  proposition,  as  inseparable  and 
inevitable  part  and  parcel  of  the  fundamental  concep 
tion  of  the  book. 

What  I  mean  by  the  symmetry  of  mere  surface  will 
now  be  more  clearly  understood.  It  is  simply  by  the 
blandishment  of  this  symmetry  that  we  have  been 
beguiled  into  the  general  idea  of  which  Madler's  hy 
pothesis  is  but  a  part, — the  idea  of  the  vortical  indraw- 
ing  of  the  orbs.  Dismissing  this  nakedly  physical 
conception,  the  symmetry  of  principle  sees  the  end  of 
all  things  metaphysically  involved  in  the  thought  of  a 
beginning;  seeks  and  finds  in  this  origin  of  all  things 
the  rudiment  of  this  end ;  and  perceives  the  impiety  of 
supposing  this  end  likely  to  be  brought  about  less 
simply,  less  directly,  less  obviously,  less  artistically, 
than  through  the  reaction  of  the  originating  Act. 

Recurring,  then,  to  a  previous  suggestion,  let  us 
3*7 


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understand  the  systems,  let  us  understand  each  star 
with  its  attendant  planets,  as  but  a  Titanic  atom  exist 
ing  in  space  with  precisely  the  same  inclination  for 
unity  which  characterized,  in  the  beginning,  the  actual 
atoms  after  their  irradiation  throughout  the  universal 
sphere.  As  these  original  atoms  rushed  toward  each 
other  in  generally  straight  lines,  so  let  us  conceive  as 
at  least  generally  rectilinear  the  paths  of  the  system- 
atoms  toward  their  respective  centres  of  aggregation; 
and  in  this  direct  drawing  together  of  the  systems  into 
clusters,  with  a  similar  and  simultaneous  drawing  to 
gether  of  the  clusters  themselves  while  undergoing 
consolidation,  we  have  at  length  attained  the  great 
Now,  the  awful  present,  the  existing  condition  of  the 
universe. 

Of  the  still  more  awful  future  a  not  irrational  an 
alogy  may  guide  us  in  framing  an  hypothesis.  The 
equilibrium  between  the  centripetal  and  centrifugal 
forces  of  each  system  being  necessarily  destroyed  upon 
attainment  of  a  certain  proximity  to  the  nucleus  of  the 
cluster  to  which  it  belongs,  there  must  occur,  at  once, 
a  chaotic,  or  seemingly  chaotic,  precipitation  of  the 
moons  upon  the  planets,  of  the  planets  upon  the  suns, 
and  of  the  suns  upon  the  nuclei ;  and  the  general  re 
sult  of  this  precipitation  must  be  the  gathering  of  the 
myriad  now-existing  stars  of  the  firmament  into  an 
almost  infinitely  less  number  of  almost  infinitely  su 
perior  spheres.  In  being  immeasurably  fewer,  the 


Eureka 

worlds  of  that  day  will  be  immeasurably  greater  than 
our  own.  Then,  indeed,  amid  unfathomable  abysses 
will  be  glaring  unimaginable  suns.  But  all  this  will 
be  merely  a  climatic  magnificence  foreboding  the  great 
end.  Of  this  end  the  new  genesis  described  can  be 
but  a  very  partial  postponement.  While  undergoing 
consolidation,  the  clusters  themselves,  with  a  speed 
prodigiously  accumulative,  have  been  rushing  toward 
their  own  general  centre,  and  now,  with  a  thousand 
fold  electric  velocity,  commensurate  only  with  their 
material  grandeur  and  with  the  spiritual  passion  of 
their  appetite  for  oneness,  the  majestic  remnants  of 
the  tribe  of  stars  flash,  at  length,  into  a  common  em 
brace.  The  inevitable  catastrophe  is  at  hand. 

But  this  catastrophe — what  is  it  ?  We  have  seen 
accomplished  the  ingatherings  of  the  orbs.  Hence 
forward,  are  we  not  to  understand  one  material  globe 
of  globes  as  constituting  and  comprehending  the  uni 
verse  ?  Such  a  fancy  would  be  altogether  at  war  with 
every  assumption  and  consideration  of  this  discourse. 

I  have  already  alluded  to  that  absolute  reciprocity 
of  adaptation  which  is  the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  Divine 
art,  stamping  it  Divine.  Up  to  this  point  of  our  re 
flections,  we  have  been  regarding  the  electrical  influ 
ence  as  a  something  by  dint  of  whose  repulsion  alone 
matter  is  enabled  to  exist  in  that  state  of  diffusion 
demanded  for  the  fulfilment  of  its  purposes;  so  far,  in 
a  word,  we  have  been  considering  the  influence  in 

3*9 


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question  as  ordained  for  matter's  sake  to  subserve  the 
objects  of  matter.  With  a  perfectly  legitimate  reci 
procity  we  are  now  permitted  to  look  at  matter  as 
created  solely  for  the  sake  of  this  influence,  solely  to 
serve  the  objects  of  this  spiritual  ether.  Through  the 
aid,  by  the  means,  through  the  agency  of  matter, 
and  by  dint  of  its  heterogeneity,  is  this  ether  mani 
fested — is  spirit  individualized.  It  is  merely  in  the 
development  of  this  ether,  through  heterogeneity,  that 
particular  masses  of  matter  become  animate,  sensi 
tive,  and  in  the  ratio  of  their  heterogeneity,  some 
reaching  a  degree  of  sensitiveness  involving  what  we 
call  thought,  and  thus  attaining  conscious  intelligence. 

In  this  view  we  are  enabled  to  perceive  matter  as 
a  means,  not  as  an  end.  Its  purposes  are  thus  seen 
to  have  been  comprehended  in  its  diffusion ;  and  with 
the  return  into  unity  these  purposes  cease.  The  ab 
solutely  consolidated  globe  of  globes  would  be  object 
less,  therefore  not  for  a  moment  could  it  continue  to 
exist.  Matter,  created  for  an  end,  would  unquestion 
ably,  on  fulfilment  of  that  end,  be  matter  no  longer. 
Let  us  endeavor  to  understand  that  it  would  disappear, 
and  that  God  would  remain  all  in  all. 

That  every  work  of  Divine  conception  must  coexist 
and  coexpire  with  its  particular  design  seems  to  me 
especially  obvious;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that,  on  per 
ceiving  the  final  globe  of  globes  to  be  objectless,  the 
majority  of  my  readers  will  be  satisfied  with  my 

320 


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"  therefore  it  cannot  continue  to  exist."  Neverthe 
less,  as  the  startling  thought  of  its  instantaneous  dis 
appearance  is  one  which  the  most  powerful  intellect 
cannot  be  expected  readily  to  entertain  on  grounds  so 
decidedly  abstract,  let  us  endeavor  to  look  at  the  idea 
from  some  other  and  more  ordinary  point  of  view; 
let  us  see  how  thoroughly  and  beautifully  it  is  corrob 
orated  in  an  a  posteriori  consideration  of  matter  as 
we  actually  find  it. 

I  have  before  said  that  "  attraction  and  repulsion 
being  undeniably  the  sole  properties  by  which  matter 
is  manifested  to  mind,  we  are  justified  in  assuming 
that  matter  exists  only  as  attraction  and  repulsion;  in 
other  words,  that  attraction  and  repulsion  are  matter, 
there  being  no  conceivable  case  in  which  we  may  not 
employ  the  term  *  matter '  and  the  terms  *  attraction  ' 
and  *  repulsion '  taken  together  as  equivalent,  and 
therefore  convertible,  expressions  of  logic."  * 

Now,  the  very  definition  of  attraction  implies  par 
ticularity,  the  existence  of  parts,  particles,  or  atoms; 
for  we  define  it  as  the  tendency  of  "  each  atom,  etc.,  to 
every  other  atom,"  etc.,  according  to  a  certain  law.  Of 
course,  where  there  are  no  parts,  where  there  is  abso 
lute  unity,  where  the  tendency  to  oneness  is  satisfied, 
there  can  be  no  attraction :  this  has  been  fully  shown, 
and  all  philosophy  admits  it.  When,  on  fulfilment  of 
its  purposes,  then,  matter  shall  have  returned  into  its 

1  Pages  205,  206. 

VOL.   X. — 21.  ? 


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original  condition  of  one,  a  condition  which  presup 
poses  the  expulsion  of  the  separative  ether,  whose 
province  and  whose  capacity  are  limited  to  keeping 
the  atoms  apart  until  that  great  day  when,  this  ether 
being  no  longer  needed,  the  overwhelming  pressure  of 
the  finally  collective  attraction  shall  at  length  just 
sufficiently  predominate  *  and  expel  it, — when,  I  say, 
matter,  finally,  expelling  the  ether,  shall  have  returned 
into  absolute  unity,  it  will  then  (to  speak  paradoxically 
for  the  moment)  be  matter  without  attraction  and 
without  repulsion,  in  other  words,  matter  without 
matter ;  in  other  words,  again,  matter  no  more.  In 
sinking  into  unity,  it  will  sink  at  once  into  that  noth 
ingness  which,  to  all  finite  perception,  unity  must  be ; 
into  that  material  nihility  from  which  alone  we  can 
conceive  it  to  have  been  evoked,  to  have  been  cre 
ated  by  the  volition  of  God. 

I  repeat,  then :  Let  us  endeavor  to  comprehend  that 
the  final  globe  of  globes  will  instantaneously  disap 
pear,  and  that  God  will  remain  all  in  all. 

But  are  we  here  to  pause  ?  Not  so.  On  the  uni 
versal  agglomeration  on  dissolution,  we  can  readily 
conceive  that  a  new  and  perhaps  totally  different  series 
of  conditions  may  ensue,  another  creation  and  irra 
diation,  returning  into  itself,  another  action  and  re 
action  of  the  Divine  Will.  Guiding  our  imaginations 
by  that  omniprevalent  law  of  laws,  the  law  of  perio- 

1 "  Gravity,  therefore,  must  be  the  strongest  of  forces." — See  page  230. 
322 


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dicity,  are  we  not,  indeed,  more  than  justified  in  en 
tertaining  a  belief — let  us  say,  rather,  in  indulging  a 
hope — that  the  processes  we  have  here  ventured  to 
contemplate  will  be  renewed  forever,  and  forever,  and 
forever;  a  novel  universe  swelling  into  existence  and 
then  subsiding  into  nothingness  at  every  throb  of  the 
Heart  Divine  ? 

And  now,  this  Heart  Divine — what  is  it  ?  It  is  our 
own. 

Let  not  the  merely  seeming  irreverence  of  this  idea 
frighten  our  souls  from  that  cool  exercise  of  conscious 
ness,  from  that  deep  tranquillity  of  self-inspection, 
through  which  alone  we  can  hope  to  attain  the  pres 
ence  of  this,  the  most  sublime  of  truths,  and  look  it 
leisurely  in  the  face. 

The  phenomena  on  which  our  conclusions  must  at 
this  point  depend  are  merely  spiritual  shadows,  but 
not  the  less  thoroughly  substantial. 

We  walk  about,  amid  the  destinies  of  our  world- 
existence,  encompassed  by  dim  and  ever  present 
memories  of  a  destiny  more  vast,  very  distant  in  the 
bygone  time,  and  infinitely  awful. 

We  live  out  a  youth  peculiarly  haunted  by  such 
dreams,  yet  never  mistaking  them  for  dreams.  As 
memories  we  know  them.  During  our  youth  the  dis 
tinction  is  too  clear  to  deceive  us  even  for  a  moment. 

So  long  as  this  youth  endures,  the  feeling  that  we 
exist  is  the  most  natural  of  all  feelings.  We  under- 


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stand  it  thoroughly.  That  there  was  a  period  at  which 
we  did  not  exist,  or,  that  it  might  so  have  happened 
that  we  never  had  existed  at  all,  are  the  considera 
tions,  indeed,  which,  during  this  youth,  we  find  diffi 
culty  in  understanding.  Why  we  should  not  exist,  is, 
up  to  the  epoch  of  our  manhood,  of  all  queries  the 
most  unanswerable.  Existence,  self-existence,  exist 
ence  from  all  time  to  all  eternity,  seems,  up  to  the 
epoch  of  manhood,  a  normal  and  questionable  condi 
tion, — seems,  because  it  is. 

But  now  comes  the  period  at  which  a  conventional 
world-reason  awakens  us  from  the  truth  of  our  dream. 
Doubt,  surprise,  and  incomprehensibility  arrive  at  the 
same  moment.  They  say:  "  You  live,  and  the  time 
was  when  you  lived  not.  You  have  been  created.  An 
Intelligence  exists  greater  than  your  own;  and  it  is 
only  through  this  Intelligence  you  live  at  all."  These 
things  we  struggle  to  comprehend,  and  cannot, — can 
not,  because  these  things,  being  untrue,  are  thus,  of 
necessity,  incomprehensible. 

No  thinking  being  lives  who,  at  some  luminous  point 
of  his  life  of  thought,  has  not  felt  himself  lost  amid 
the  surges  of  futile  efforts  at  understanding  or  believ 
ing  that  anything  exists  greater  than  his  own  soul. 
The  utter  impossibility  of  any  one's  soul  feeling  itself 
inferior  to  another ;  the  intense,  overwhelming  dissatis 
faction  and  rebellion  at  the  thought ; — these,  with  the 
omniprevalent  aspirations  at  perfection,  are  but  the 

324 


Eureka 

spiritual,  coincident  with  the  material,  struggles  to 
ward  the  original  unity;  are,  to  my  mind  at  least,  a 
species  of  proof  far  surpassing  what  man  terms  demon 
stration  that  no  one  soul  is  inferior  to  another;  that 
nothing  is,  or  can  be,  superior  to  any  one  soul;  that 
each  soul  is,  in  part,  its  own  God,  its  own  Creator ;  in  a 
word,  that  God — the  material  and  spiritual  God — now 
exists  solely  in  the  diffused  matter  and  spirit  of  the 
universe;  and  that  the  regathering  of  this  diffused 
matter  and  spirit  will  be  but  the  reconstitution  of  the 
purely  spiritual  and  individual  God. 

In  this  view,  and  in  this  view  alone,  we  comprehend 
the  riddles  of  Divine  injustice,  of  inexorable  fate.  In 
this  view  alone  the  existence  of  evil  becomes  intelli 
gible  ;  but  in  this  view  it  becomes  more — it  becomes 
endurable.  Our  souls  no  longer  rebel  at  a  sorrow 
which  we  ourselves  have  imposed  upon  ourselves,  in 
furtherance  of  our  own  purposes,  with  a  view,  if  even 
with  a  futile  view,  to  the  extension  of  our  own  joy. 

I  have  spoken  of  memories  that  haunt  us  during 
our  youth.  They  sometimes  pursue  us  even  in  our 
manhood;  assume  gradually  less  and  less  indefinite 
shapes ;  now  and  then  speak  to  us  with  low  voices, 
saying : 

"  There  was  an  epoch  in  the  night  of  time  when  a 
still-existent  Being  existed,1  one  of  an  absolutely  in- 


1  See  pages  280, 281,  paragraph  commencing  "  I  reply  that  the  right,"  and 
ending  "  proper  and  particular  God." 

325 


Eureka 

finite  number  of  similar  beings  that  people  the  abso 
lutely  infinite  domains  of  the  absolutely  infinite  space. 
It  was  not  and  is  not  in  the  power  of  this  Being,  any 
more  than  it  is  in  your  own,  to  extend,  by  actual  in 
crease,  the  joy  of  His  existence ;  but  just  as  it  is  in  your 
power  to  expand  or  to  concentrate  your  pleasures  (the 
absolute  amount  of  happiness  remaining  always  the 
same)  so  did  and  does  a  similar  capability  appertain 
to  this  Divine  Being,  who  thus  passes  His  eternity  in 
perpetual  variation  of  Concentrated  Self  and  almost 
Infinite  Self -Diffusion.  What  you  call  the  universe  is 
but  his  present  expansive  existence.  He  now  feels  His 
life  through  an  infinity  of  imperfect  pleasures,  the  par 
tial  and  pain-intertangled  pleasures  of  those  incon 
ceivably  numerous  things  which  you  designate  as  His 
creatures,  but  which  are  really  but  infinite  individual- 
izations  of  Himself.  All  these  creatures,  all, — those 
which  you  term  animate  as  well  as  those  to  whom  you 
deny  life  for  no  better  reason  than  that  you  do  not 
behold  it  in  operation, — all  these  creatures  have,  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree,  a  capacity  for  pleasure  and  for 
pain;  but  the  general  sum  of  their  sensations  is  pre 
cisely  that  amount  of  happiness  which  appertains  by 
right  to  the  Divine  Being  when  concentrated  within 
Himself.  These  creatures  are  all,  too,  more  or  less 
conscious  intelligences;  conscious,  first,  of  a  proper 
identity;  conscious,  secondly,  and  by  faint  indeter 
minate  glimpses,  of  an  identity  with  the  Divine  Being 

326 


Eureka 

of  whom  we  speak,  of  an  identity  with  God.  Of  the 
two  classes  of  consciousness,  fancy  that  the  former 
will  grow  weaker,  the  latter  stronger,  during  the  long 
succession  of  ages  which  must  elapse  before  these 
myriads  of  individual  intelligences  become  blended — 
when  the  bright  stars  become  blended — into  One. 
Think  that  the  sense  of  individual  identity  will  be 
gradually  merged  in  the  general  consciousness;  that 
man,  for  example,  ceasing  imperceptibly  to  feel  him 
self  man,  will  at  length  attain  that  awfully  triumphant 
epoch  when  he  shall  recognize  his  existence  as  that  of 
Jehovah.  In  the  meantime  bear  in  mind  that  all  is 
life — life — life  within  life,  the  less  within  the  greater, 
and  all  within  the  Spirit  Divine. 


The  theories  of  the  universe  propounded  in  Eureka 
had,  it  appears,  been  under  consideration  with  Poe  for 
a  year  or  more  previous  to  the  publication  of  that 
essay. 

In  February,  1848,  Poe  had  outlined  these  theories 
in  a  letter  "  to  a  correspondent "  (whose  name  is  not 
recorded),  of  which  the  following  are  the  more  im 
portant  portions : 

"  By  the  by,  lest  you  infer  that  my  views  in  detail 
327 


Eureka 

are  the  same  as  those  advanced  in  the  Nebular 
Hypothesis,  I  venture  to  offer  a  few  addenda,  the  sub 
stance  of  which  was  penned,  though  never  printed, 
several  years  ago,  under  the  head  of 

A  PREDICTION 

"  As  soon  as  the  beginning  of  the  next  century  it  will 
be  entered  in  the  books  that  the  sun  was  originally 
condensed  at  once  (not  gradually,  according  to  the 
supposition  of  Laplace)  to  his  smallest  size;  that,  thus 
condensed,  he  rotated  on  an  axis;  that  this  axis  of 
rotation  was  not  the  central  line  of  his  figure,  so  that 
he  not  only  rotated,  but  revolved  in  an  elliptical  orbit 
(the  rotation  and  revolution  are  one,  but  I  separate 
them  for  convenience  of  illustration);  that,  thus 
formed  and  thus  revolving,  he  was  on  fire  and  sent  into 
space,  his  substance  in  vapor,  this  vapor  reaching 
farthest  on  the  side  of  the  larger  hemisphere,  partly  on 
account  of  the  largeness,  but  principally  because  the 
force  of  the  fire  was  greater  there ;  that,  in  due  time 
the  vapor,  not  necessarily  carried  then  to  the  place 
now  occupied  by  Neptune,  condensed  into  that  planet ; 
that  Neptune  took,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  same 
figure  that  the  sun  had,  which  figure  made  his  rotation 
a  revolution  in  an  elliptical  orbit;  that,  in  conse 
quence  of  such  revolution,  in  consequence  of  his  being 
carried  backward  at  each  of  the  daily  revolutions,  the 

328 


Eureka 

velocity  of  his  annual  revolution  is  not  so  great  as  it 
would  be  if  it  depended  solely  upon  the  sun's  velocity 
of  rotation  (Kepler's  third  law);  that  his  figure,  by 
influencing  his  rotation — the  heavier  hah*,  as  it  turns 
downward  toward  the  sun,  gains  an  impetus  sufficient 
to  carry  it  past  the  direct  line  of  attraction,  and  thus 
to  throw  outward  the  centre  of  gravity — gave  him 
power  to  save  himself  from  falling  to  the  sun  (and, 
perhaps,  to  work  himself  gradually  outward  to  the 
position  he  now  occupies) ;  that  he  received,  through 
a  series  of  ages,  the  sun's  heat,  which  penetrated  to 
his  centre,  causing  volcanoes  eventually,  and  thus 
throwing  off  vapor,  and  which  evaporated  substances 
upon  his  surface,  till  finally  his  moons  and  his  gaseous 
ring  (if  it  is  true  that  he  has  a  ring)  were  produced; 
that  these  moons  took  elliptical  forms,  rotated  and 
revolved, '  both  under  one,'  were  kept  in  their  monthly 
orbits  by  the  centrifugal  force  acquired  in  their  daily 
orbits,  and  required  a  longer  time  to  make  their 
monthly  revolutions  than  they  would  have  required  if 
they  had  had  no  daily  revolutions. 

"  I  have  said  enough,  without  referring  to  the  other 
planets,  to  give  you  an  inkling  of  my  hypothesis,  which 
is  all  I  intended  to  do. 

"  You  perceive  that  I  hold  to  the  idea  that  our  moon 
must  rotate  on  her  axis  oftener  than  she  revolves 
round  her  primary,  the  same  being  the  case  with  the 
moons  of  Jupiter,  Saturn,  and  Uranus. 

329 


Eureka 

"  Since  the  penning,  a  closer  analysis  of  the  matter 
contained  has  led  me  to  modify  somewhat  my  opinion 
as  to  the  origin  of  the  satellites ;  that  is,  I  hold  now 
that  they  came,  not  from  vapor  sent  off  in  volcanic 
eruptions,  and  by  simple  diffusion  under  the  solar  rays, 
but  from  rings  of  it  which  were  left  in  the  inter-plane 
tary  spaces  after  the  precipitation  of  the  primaries. 
There  is  no  insuperable  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  con 
ception  that  meteoric  stones  and '  shooting-stars '  have 
their  source  in  matter  which  has  gone  off  from  vol 
canoes  and  by  common  evaporation;  but  it  is  hardly 
supposable  that  a  sufficient  quantity  could  be  produced 
thus  to  make  a  body  so  large  as,  by  centrifugal  force 
resulting  from  rotation,  to  withstand  the  absorptive 
power  of  its  parent's  rotation.  The  event  implied  may 
take  place  not  until  the  planets  have  become  flaming 
suns — from  an  accumulation  of  their  own  sun's  cal 
oric,  reacting  from  centre  to  surface,  which  shall  in 
the  lonesome  latter  days  melt  all  the  '  elements '  and 
dissipate  the  solid  foundations  out  as  a  scroll. 

"  The  sun  forms,  in  rotating,  a  vortex  in  the  ether 
surrounding  him.  The  planets  have  their  orbits  lying 
within  this  vortex  at  different  distances  from  its  centre ; 
so  that  their  liabilities  to  be  absorbed  by  it  are,  other 
things  being  equal,  inversely  according  to  those  dis 
tances,  since  length,  not  surface,  is  the  measure  of  the 
absorptive  power  along  the  lines  marking  the  orbits. 
Each  planet  overcomes  its  liability,  that  is,  keeps  in  its 


Eureka 

orbit,  through  a  counter-vortex  generated  by  its  own 
rotation.  The  force  of  such  counter-vortex  is  meas 
ured  by  multiplying  together  the  producing  planet's 
density  and  rotary  velocity;  which  velocity  depends, 
not  upon  the  length  of  the  planet's  equatorial  circum 
ference,  but  upon  the  distance  through  which  a  given 
point  of  the  equator  is  carried  during  a  rotary  period. 
Then  if  Venus  and  Mercury,  for  example,  have  now  the 
orbits  in  which  they  commenced  their  revolutions — the 
orbit  of  the  former  68  million  miles,  and  that  of  the  lat 
ter  37  million  miles,  from  the  centre  of  the  sun's  vortex ; 
if  the  diameter  of  Venus  is  2g  times  the  diameter,  and 
her  density  is  the  same  with  the  density,  of  Mercury; 
and  if  the  rotary  velocity  of  the  equator  of  Venus  is 
1000  miles  per  hour,  that  of  Mercury's  equator  is  1,900 
miles  per  hour,  making  the  diameter  of  his  orbit  of 
rotation  14,500  miles — nearly  five  times  that  of  him 
self.  But  I  pass  this  point  without  further  examina 
tion.  Whether  there  is  or  is  not  a  difference  in  the 
relative  conditions  of  the  different  planets  sufficient  to 
cause  such  diversity  in  the  extents  of  their  peripheries 
of  rotation  as  is  indicated,  still  each  planet  is  to  be  con 
sidered  to  have,  other  things  being  equal,  a  vortical 
resistance  bearing  the  same  proportion  inversely  to  that 
of  every  other  planet  which  its  distance  from  the  centre 
of  the  solar  vortex  bears  to  the  distance  of  every  other 
from  the  same ;  so  that  if  it  be  removed  inward  or  out 
ward  from  its  position,  it  will  increase  or  diminish  that 

33 1 


Eureka 

resistance,  accordingly,  by  adding  to  or  subtracting 
from  its  speed  or  rotation.  As  the  rotary  period  must 
be  one  in  the  two  cases,  the  greater  or  less  speed  can 
be  produced  only  by  the  lengthening  or  the  shortening 
of  the  circumference  described  by  the  rotation. 

"  Then  Mercury,  at  the  distance  of  Venus,  would 
rotate  in  an  orbit  only  ||  as  broad  as  the  one  in  which 
he  does  rotate;  so  his  centrifugal  force,  in  that  posi 
tion,  would  be  only  ||  as  great  as  it  is  in  his  own 
position;  so  his  capability,  while  there,  of  resisting  the 
forward  pressure  of  the  sun's  vortex,  which  prevents 
him  from  passing  his  full  (circle)  distance  behind  his 
centre  of  rotation  and  thus  adds  to  his  velocity  in  his 
annual  orbit,  would  be  but  f|  of  what  it  is  in  his  own 
place.  But  this  forward  pressure  is  only  ||  as  great 
at  the  distance  of  Venus  as  it  is  at  that  of  Mercury. 
Then  Mercury,  with  his  own  rotary  speed  in  the  an 
nual  orbit  of  Venus,  would  move  but  ||  as  fast  as 
Venus  moves  in  it;  while  Venus,  with  her  rotary 

fiQ 

speed  in  Mercury's  annual  orbit,  would  move  —  as  fast 
as  she  moves  in  her  own,  that  is,  ||  of  ^  as  fast  as 
Mercury  would  move  in  the  same  (annual  orbit  of 
Venus).  It  follows  that  the  square  root  of  ||  is  the 
measure  of  the  velocity  of  Mercury  in  his  own  annual 
orbit  with  his  own  rotary  speed,  compared  with  that  of 
Venus  in  her  annual  orbit  with  her  rotary  speed — in 
accordance  with  the  fact. 

"  Such  is  my  explanation  of  Kepler's  first  and  third 
332 


Eureka 

laws,  which  laws  cannot  be  explained  upon  the  prin 
ciple  of  Newton's  theory. 

"  Two  planets,  gathered  from  portions  of  the  sun's 
vapor  into  one  orbit,  would  rotate  through  the  same 
ellipse  with  velocities  proportional  to  their  densities; 
that  is,  the  denser  planet  would  rotate  the  more  swiftly; 
since,  in  condensing,  it  would  have  descended  farther 
toward  the  sun.  For  example,  suppose  the  earth  and 
Jupiter  to  be  the  two  planets  in  one  orbit.  The  diam 
eter  of  the  former  is  8,000  miles;  period  of  rotation, 
24  hours.  The  diameter  of  the  latter  is  88,000  miles: 
period,  g\  hours.  The  ring  of  vapor  out  of  which  the 
earth  was  formed  was  of  a  certain  (perpendicular) 
width ;  that  out  of  which  Jupiter  was  formed  was  of  a 
certain  greater  width.  In  condensing,  the  springs  of 
ether  lying  among  the  particles  (these  springs  having 
been  latent  before  the  condensation  began)  were  let 
out,  the  number  of  them  along  any  given  radial  line 
being  the  number  of  spaces  between  all  the  couples  of 
the  particles  constituting  the  line.  If  the  two  conden 
sations  had  gone  on  in  simple  diametric  proportions, 
Jupiter  would  have  put  forth  only  n  times  as  many 
springs  as  the  earth  did,  and  his  velocity  would  have 
been  but  n  times  her  velocity.  But  the  fact  that 
the  falling  downward  of  her  particles  was  completed 
when  they  had  got  so  far  that  24  hours  were  required 
for  her  equator  to  make  its  rotary  circuit,  while  that 
of  his  particles  continued  till  but  about  |  of  her  period 

333 


Eureka 

was  occupied  by  his  equator  in  effecting  its  revolution, 
shows  that  his  springs  were  increased  above  hers  in 
still  another  ratio  of  2^,  making,  in  the  case,  his  ve 
locity  and  his  vortical  force  (2\  x  "  =)  27  times  her 
velocity  and  force. 

"  Then  the  planets'  densities  are  inversely  as  their 
rotary  periods ;  and  their  rotary  velocities  and  degrees 
of  centrifugal  force  are,  other  things  being  equal,  di 
rectly  as  their  densities. 

"  Two  planets,  revolving  in  one  orbit,  in  rotating, 
would  approach  the  sun,  therefore  enlarge  their  rotary 
ellipses,  therefore  accelerate  their  rotary  velocities, 
therefore  increase  their  powers  of  withstanding  the  in 
fluence  of  the  solar  vortex,  inversely  according  to  the 
products  of  their  diameters  into  their  densities ;  that  is, 
the  smaller  and  less  dense  planet,  having  to  resist  an 
amount  of  influence  equal  to  that  resisted  by  the  other> 
would  multiply  the  number  of  its  resisting  springs  by 
the  ratio  of  the  other's  diameter  and  density  to  the 
diameter  and  density  of  itself.  Thus,  the  earth,  in 
Jupiter's  orbit,  would  have  to  rotate  in  an  ellipse  27 
times  as  broad  as  herself,  in  order  to  make  her  power 
correspond  with  his. 

"  Then  the  breadths,  in  a  perpendicular  direction,  of 
the  rotary  ellipses  of  the  planets  in  their  several  orbits 
are  inversely  as  the  products  obtained  by  multiplying 
together  the  bodies'  densities,  diameters,  and  distances 
from  the  centre  of  the  solar  vortex.  Thus,  the  product 

334 


Eureka 

of  Jupiter's  density,  diameter,  and  distance  being  (2^ 
times  ii  times  5^-)  140  times  the  product  of  the  earth's 
density,  diameter,  and  distance,  the  breadth  of  the 
latter's  ellipse  is  about  1,120,000  miles;  this  upon  the 
foundation,  of  course,  that  Jupiter's  ellipse  coincides 
precisely  with  his  own  equatorial  diameter." 

[Note  by  the  editor. — The  last  paragraph  has  been 
copied  just  as  it  stands.  But  the  query  arises  whether 
the  calculator  in  arriving  at  his  conclusion  did  not 
take,  accidentally,  one  step  off  his  premises.  Isn't 
rotary  velocity  inversely  according  to  distance  ?  there 
fore  should  not  the  ratio  of  Jupiter's,  to  the  earth's, 
distance,  s|,  come  in  as  a  divisor,  instead  of  a  mul 
tiplier  ?] 

"  It  will  be  observed  that  that  process,  in  its  last 
analysis,  presents  the  point  that  rotary  speed  (hence 
that  vortical  force)  is  in  exact  inverse  proportion  to  dis 
tance.  Then,  since  the  movement  in  orbit  is  a  part  of 
the  rotary  movement,  being  at  the  rate  which  the 
centre  of  the  rotary  ellipse  is  carried  along  the  line 
marking  the  orbit,  and  since  that  centre  and  the 
planet's  centre  are  not  identical,  the  former  being  the 
point  around  which  the  latter  revolves,  causing,  by 
the  act,  a  relative  loss  of  time  in  the  inverse  ratio  of  the 
square  root  of  distance,  as  I  have  shown  back,  the 
speed  in  orbit  is  inversely  according  to  the  square  root 
of  distance.  Demonstration — the  earth's  orbital  pe 
riod  contains  365^-  of  her  rotary  periods.  During  these 

335 


Eureka 

periods  her  equator  passes  through  a  distance  of 
(1,120,000  X  ~  X  365^  =)  about  1,286  million  miles; 
and  the  centre  of  her  rotary  ellipse,  through  a  distance 
of  (95,000,000  x  2  x  y=  )  about  597  million  miles. 
Jupiter's  orbital  period  has  (365^  x  i\  X  12  years  =) 
about  10,957  of  his  rotary  periods,  during  which  his 
equator  courses  (88,000  x  y  X  10,957  =)  about 
3,050  million  miles;  and  the  centre  of  his  rotary  ellipse 
about  the  same  number  of  miles  (490,000,000  x  2  x 
22).  Dividing  this  distance  by  12  (3  °50™°  °°°  =) 
gives  the  length  of  Jupiter's  double  journey  during 
one  of  the  earth's  orbital  periods  =  254  million  miles. 
Relative  velocities  in  ellipse  (~^  =)  5  -f-  to  i,  which 
is  inversely  as  the  distances  ;  and  relative  velocities  in 
orbit  (f|?  =)  2  +  to  i,  inversely  as  the  square  roots 
of  the  distances. 

"  The  sun's  period  of  rotation  being  25  days,  his 
density  is  only  ^  of  that  of  a  planet  having  a  period  of 
24  hours  —  that  of  Mercury,  for  instance.  Hence  Mer 
cury  has,  for  the  purpose  now  in  view,  virtually  a  diam 
eter  equal  to  a  little  more  than  ~  of  that  of  the  sun 

=  11.84:  =)-say, 


75,000  miles. 

"  Here  we  have  a  conception  of  the  planet  in  the 
mid-stage,  so  to  speak,  of  its  condensation,  after  the 
breaking  up  of  the  vaporous  ring  which  was  to  pro 
duce  it  and  just  at  the  taking  on  of  the  globular  form. 
But  before  the  arrival  at  this  stage  the  figure  was  that 

336 


Eureka 

of  a  truck,  the  vertical  diameter  of  which  is  identifiable 
in  the  periphery  of  the  globe  (75,000  x  y  =),  236 
thousand  miles.  Half  way  down  this  diameter  the  body 
settled  into  its  (original)  orbit, — rather,  would  have 
settled  had  it  been  the  only  one,  besides  its  parents,  hi 
the  solar  system,— an  orbit  distant  from  the  sun's 
equator  (236a°°°  =  )  118,000  miles;  and  from  the 
centre  of  the  solar  vortex  (118,000  +  888_2£2_-  ^ 
562  thousand  miles.  To  this  are  to  be  added  succes 
sively  the  lengths  of  the  semi-diameters  of  the  trucks 
of  Venus,  of  the  earth,  and  so  on  outward. 

"  There,  the  planets'  original  distances,  rather, 
speaking  strictly,  the  widths  from  the  common  centre 
to  the  outer  limits  of  their  rings  of  vapor,  are  pointed 
at.  From  these,  as  foundations,  the  present  dis 
tances  may  be  deduced.  A  simple  outline  of  the  pro 
cess  to  the  deduction  is  this:  Neptune  took  his  orbit 
first;  then  Uranus  took  his.  The  effect  of  the  coming 
into  closer  conjunction  of  the  two  bodies  was  such  as 
would  have  been  produced  by  bringing  each  so  much 
nearer  the  centre  of  the  solar  vortex.  Each  enlarged 
its  rotary  ellipse  and  increased  its  rotary  velocity  in  the 
ratio  of  the  decrease  of  distance.  A  secondary  result 
— the  final  consequence — of  the  enlargement  and  the 
increase  was  the  propulsion  of  each  outward,  the  square 
root  of  the  relative  decrease  being  the  measure  of  the 
length  through  which  each  was  sent.  The  primary 
result,  of  course,  was  the  drawing  of  each  inward ;  and 

337 


Eureka 

it  is  fairly  presumable  that  there  were  oscillations  in 
ward  and  outward,  outward  and  inward,  during  sev 
eral  successive  periods  of  rotation.  It  is  probable,  at 
any  rate,  not  glaringly  improbable,  that,  in  the  oscilla 
tions  across  the  remnants  of  the  rings  of  vapor  (the 
natural  inference  is  that  these  were  not  completely 
gathered  into  the  composition  of  the  bodies),  portions 
of  the  vapor  were  whirled  into  satellites,  which  fol 
lowed  in  the  passage  outward. 

"  Saturn's  ring  (I  have  no  allusion  to  the  rings  now 
existing),  as  well  as  that  of  each  of  the  other  planets 
after  him,  while  it  was  being  gradually  cast  off  from 
the  sun's  equator,  was  carried  along  in  the  track  of  its 
next  predecessor,  the  distance  here  being  the  full 
quotient  (not  the  square  root  of  the  quotient)  found  in 
dividing  by  the  breadth  to  its  own  periphery,  that  to 
the  periphery  of  the  other.  Thus,  reckoning  for  Ura 
nus  a  breadth  of  17  million,  and  for  Saturn  one  of  14 
million  miles,  the  latter  (still  in  his  vaporous  state)  was 
conducted  outward  (through  a  sort  of  capillary  attrac 
tion)  j|  as  far  as  the  former  (after  condensation)  was 
driven  by  means  of  the  vortical  influence  of  Neptune. 
The  new  body  and  the  two  older  bodies  interchanged 
forces,  and  another  advance  outward  (of  all  three)  was 
made.  Combining  all  of  the  asteroids  into  one  of  the 
Nine  Great  Powers,  there  were  eight  stages  of  the  gen 
eral  movement  away  from  the  centre;  and,  granting 
that  we  have,  exact,  the  diameters  and  the  rotary 

338 


Eureka 

periods  (that  is,  the  densities)  of  all  of  the  participants 
in  the  movement,  the  measurement  of  each  stage  by 
itself,  and  of  all  the  stages  together,  can  be  calculated 
exactly. 

"  How  will  that  do  for  a  postscript  ?  " 


339 


Title  Index 

ESSAYS  AND  MISCELLANIES 


Adams.  T.  0. 

VOL. 

PAGE 

TOO 

Allston,  Washington     . 

.     10 

•L«3O 

153 

Anastatic  Printing 

.     10 

162 

Anthon,  Charles   . 

.     10 

82 

Arthur,  T.  S. 

.     10 

139 

Astoria          .... 

.       7 

35 

Autography,  A  Chapter  on    . 

.       IO 

77 

Barrett,  Elizabeth  Barrett     . 

.       8 

82 

Benjamin,  Park    . 

.       IO 

86 

Bird,  Robert  M.    . 

.      7 

i 

Bird,  Robert  M.    . 

.       10 

108 

Bogart,  Elizabeth 

9 

59 

Brainard,  J.  G.  C. 

.       7 

245 

Brooks,  James 

.       10 

137 

Brooks,  N.  C. 

.       10 

125 

Brown,  David  Paul 

.       IO 

143 

Brownson,  O.  A.  . 

.       10 

98 

Bryant,  William  Cullen 

.       8 

293 

Burton,  W.  E. 

.10 

135 

Calvert,  George  H. 

.       10 

122 

Cass,  Lewis  .... 

.       IO 

136 

Chandler,  Jos.  R.  . 

.     10 

118 

Channing,  William  Ellery     . 

.       8 

i 

Channing,  William  Ellery     . 

.       IO 

127 

Chapter  on  Autography,  A    . 

.       IO 

77 

341 


Title  Index 

VOL.  PAGE 

Child,  LydiaM 9  5* 

drivers,  Thos.  H 10  140 

Cist,  L.  J 10  138 

Clark,  Lewis  Gaylord 9  67 

Cockton,  Henry 7  *9Q 

"  Conchologist's  First  Book,  The,"  Preface  to]      .  10  40 

Conrad,  R.  T 10  132 

Cooper,  J.  Fenimore 8  22 

Cooper,  J.  Fenimore 10  109 

Cranch,  Christopher  Pearse 9  I 

Cryptography 10  54 

Dana,  Richard  H 10  124 

Davidson,  Lucretia  Maria 7  *75 

Dawes,  Rufus 7  293 

Dawes,  Rufus 10  94 

Dickens,  Charles 7  196 

Doane,  G.  W 10157 

Dow,  J.  E 10  129 

Downing,  Jack 10  137 

DuSolle,  JohnS 10  119 

Earle,  Pliny 10  131 

Ellett,  Elizabeth  Frieze 9  125 

Embury,  Emma  C 9  26 

Embury,  Emma  C I(>  IO2 

Emerson,  R.  W 10161 

Eureka IO  *7<> 

Everett,  Edward 10  107 

Fancy  and  Imagination 7  I24 

Fay,  Theo.  S 10  121 

Flaccus 7  353 

French,  J.  S 10  120 

Frost,  J 10  141 

Fuller,  Sarah  Margaret 9  6 

Furniture,  Philosophy  of 10  4* 

Gallagher,  W.  D 10  123 

Godey,  L.  A 10  119 

Gould,  H.  F 10  101 

Graham,  Geo.  R 10  115 

Greeley,  Horace 10  149 

342 


Title  Index 


Griswold  and  the  Poets          .... 

Hale,  Sarah  J 

Halleck,  FitzGreene 

Hawks,  F.  L 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel  ..... 

Headley,  Joel  T 

Heath,  Jas.  E 

Henry,  C.  S 

Herbert,  Henry  William        .... 

Hewitt,  Mary  E 

Hirst,  Henry  B 

Hoffman,  David 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno       .... 
Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno       .... 

Holden,  Ezra 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell        .... 

Home,  R.  H. 

Ingraham,  J.  H 

Irving,  Washington 

Jones,  J.  Beauchamp 

Kennedy,  John  P. 

Kirkland,  Caroline  M 

Langtree,  S.  D 

Lawson,  James 

Legare,  H.  S 

Leslie,  Eliza 

Lever,  Charles 

Lewis,  Estelle  Anna 

Lieber,  Francis 

Literati,  The 

Literati,  The 

Locke,  Richard  Adams  .... 

Locke,  Richard  Adams          .... 

Longfellow's  Ballads 

Longfellow,  Henry  W.  .... 

Longfellow  (Mr.),  and  Other  Plagiarists 
Longfellow  (Mr.),  Mr.  Willis,  and  the  Drama 

Lord,  William  W 

Loud,  Mrs.  M.  St.  Leon         .... 

343 


VOL. 
7 

PAGE 
313 

IO 

107 

10 

93 

IO 

no 

7 
9 

329 

146 

IO 

139 

10 

IOI 

IO 

no 

9 
9 

77 
126 

10 

131 

9 

72 

IO 

149 

10 
IO 

8 

114 
156 
42 

IO 
IO 

92 

85 

IO 
IO 

134 
88 

9 

19 

10 

132 

9 

19 

IO 

117 

IO 

IO2 

7 

257 

9 

IO 

97 

1  06 

8 

312 

9 
9 

i 
83 

IO 

159 

7 

274 

IO 

8 
8 

95 
143 

220 

8 

121 

IO 

130 

Title  Index 

VOL.  PAGE 

Lowell,  James  Russell 9  109 

Lowell,  James  Russell 10  138 

Lunt,  George 10  117 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington       ....  7  138 

MaelzePs  Chess-Player 10  i 

Magazine  Prison  House,  Some  Secrets  of  8  138 

Magazine  Writing 7  15 

Marginalia 9  176 

Marryat,  Frederick 7  168 

Mathews,  Cornelius 7  228 

Mathews,  Cornelius 10  148 

McHenry,  James 10  158 

Mcjilton,  J.  N 10  123 

McMichael,  M 10  124 

Mellen,  Grenville 10  89 

Miller,  Margaret 7  175 

Mitchell,  J.  K 10  121 

Morris,  George  P. 7  118 

Morris,  George  P. 10  122 

Morris,  Robert 10  113 

Mr.  Longfellow,  and  Other  Plagiarists  .         .         .  8  143 

Mr.  Longfellow,  Mr.  Willis,  and  the  Drama  .         .  8  220 

Neal,  John 10  108 

Neal,  Joseph  C 10  103 

Nichols,  Mrs.  R.  S •  10  159 

Notes  on  English  Verse i  267 

Old  English  Poetry 7  no 

Osgood,  Frances  Sargent 9  30 

Otis,  James  F 10  142 

Palfrey,  J.  G 10  in 

Paulding,  J.  K 10  90 

Peabody,  William  B.  0 10  151 

"  Peter  Snook " 7  *5 

Philosophy  of  Composition,  The  i  287 

Philosophy  of  Furniture 10  44 

Pierpont,  J. 10  96 

Pike,  Albert 10157 

Pinakidia 9  156 

Poetic  Principle,  The i  164 

344 


Title  Index 

VOL.  PAGE 

Poet's  Art,  The I  153 

Preface  to  "  The  Conchologist's  First  Book  "        .  10  40 

Purpose  of  Poetry.    Letter  to  B .        .        .  i  153 

Quacks  of  Helicon,  The 7  151 

Rationale  of  Verse,  The i  198 

Review  of  Stephens's  "  Arabia  Petraea  "                 .7  80 

Reynolds,  J.  W 10  142 

Sanderson,  John 10  101 

Sargent,  Epes 9  28 

Sargent,  Epes 10  152 

Sedgwick,  Catherine  M 9  60 

Sedgwick,  Catherine  M 10  109 

Sigourney,  L.  H 10  90 

Simms,  William  Gilmore 8  287 

Simms,  William  Gilmore       .         .         .         .         .10  97 

Slidell,  Alexander 10  105 

Smith,  Elizabeth  Oakes 8  270 

Smith,  Richard  Penn 10  155 

Smith,  Seba 7  144 

Smith,  Seba 10  104 

Some  Secrets  of  the  Magazine  Prison  House .  8  138 

Sparks,  Jared 10116 

Sprague,  Charles 10  147 

Stedman,  Mrs.  E.  C 10  143 

Stephens's  "  Arabia  Petrsea,"  Review  of                .7  80 

Stephens,  Mrs.  Ann  S 10  144 

Stockton,  Thos.  H 10  126 

Stone,  W.  L 10  115 

Story,  Joseph 10  141 

Street,  Alfred  B 10  154 

Taylor,  Bayard 9  121 

Thomas,  F.  W 10  112 

Thomson,  C.  W 10  126 

Tucker,  Beverly 10  99 

Tuckerman,  H.  T 10118 

Wallace,  William 9  132 

Walsh,  Robert 7  9 

Walsh,  Robert 10  91 

Ward,  Thomas 7  353 

345 


Title  Index 

VOL.  PAGE 

Ware,  H.,  Jr 10  151 

Welby,  Amelia 8  74 

Weld,  H.  Hastings 10  129 

Wetmore,  Prosper  M 9  25 

Wetmore,  Prosper  M 10  150 

Whipple,  E.  P.,  and  Other  Critics          .        .        .  9  134 

Whittier,  J.  G 10  144 

Wilde,  Richard  Henry 10  135 

Willis,  N.  P. 10  93 

Wilmer,  L.  A 10  128 

POEMS.     TITLES 

AlAaraaf i  28 

Alone i  53 

Annabel  Lee i  141 

Bells,  The i  136 

Bridal  Ballad i  101 

City  in  the  Sea,  The i  60 

Coliseum,  The i  69 

Conqueror  Worm,  The i  107 

Dream,  A i  22 

Dreamland   ...•••         ••I  IO9 

Dreams J  I2 

Dream  Within  a  Dream,  A i  18 

Eldorado i  149 

Enigma,  An *  J3O 

Eulalie i  121 

Evening  Star i  l6 

Fairy-Land i  50 

For  Annie *  J44 

"  Happiest  Day,  the  Happiest  Hour "    .         .  i  23 

Haunted  Palace,  The i  103 

Hymn i  73 

"  In  Youth  have  I  Known  one  with  whom  the 

Earth" i  20 

Israfel i  66 

Lake,  The.     To i  25 

Lenore i  5^ 

346 


Title  Index 

VOL.  PAGE 

Raven,  The i       112 

Romance 49 

Scenes  from  "  Politian " 76 

Silence          .                           106 

Sleeper,  The 63 

Sonnet:  To  Science 27 

Spirits  of  the  Dead 14 

Tamerlane i 

To 48 

To 52 

To ii 

To 128 

To  F 74 

To  F s  S.   O d 75 

To  Helen 55 

To  Helen 131 

To  M.  L.  S 123 

To  My  Mother 143 

To  One  in  Paradise 71 

To  the  River 47 

To  Zante 100 

Ulalume 124 

Valentine 134 

Valley  of  Unrest,  The 58 

TALES 

Angel  of  the  Odd,  The 6       114 

Assignation,  The 2       131 

Balloon  Hoax,  The 5       26a 

Berenice 2         18 

Black  Cat,  The 5       *72 

Bon-Bon 2       150 

Business  Man,  The 4       *44 

Cask  of  Amontillado,  The 6       220 

Colloquy  of  Monos  and  Una,  The  ....  4       2*>8 

Conversation  of  Eiros  and  Charmion,  The     .         .  4           i 

Descent  into  the  Maelstrom,  A               .         .         .  4       231 

Devil  in  the  Belfry,  The 3       256 

347 


Title  Index 


VOL. 

PAGE 

Diddling       

.        5 

228 

6 

231 

Due  de  1'Omelette,  The 

2 

*** 
235 

Eleonora       

4 

310 

Facts  in  the  Case  of  M.  Valdemar,  The  . 

.       6 

2O4 

Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  The    . 

.       3 

287 

Four  Beasts  in  One       .... 

2 

241 

Gold-Bug,  The      

-       5 

III 

Hop-Frog     

.       6 

256 

How  to  Write  a  Blackwood  Article 

-       3 

218 

Imp  of  the  Perverse,  The 

.       6 

164 

Island  of  the  Fay,  The 

.       4 

259 

Journal  of  Julius  Rodman,  The    . 

.       4 

35 

King  Pest     

2 

181 

Lander's  Cottage  

.       6 

307 

Ligeia           

•       3 

192 

Lionizing      

2 

4i 

Literary  Life  of  Thingum  Bob,  Esq. 

.      6 

25 

Loss  of  Breath      

2 

20  1 

Man  of  the  Crowd,  The 

4 

159 

Man  that  was  Used  Up,  The 

3 

270 

Masque  of  the  Red  Death,  The      . 

4 

326 

Mellonta  Tauta     

.       6 

272 

Mesmeric  Revelation    .... 

.       5 

283 

Metzengerstein      

2 

221 

Morella         

2 

32 

MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle 

2 

5 

Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,  The  . 

4 

174 

Mystery  of  Marie  Roget,  The 

•       5 

i 

Mystification         

4 

ii 

Narrative  of  A.  Gordon  Pym 

2 

261 

Narrative  of  A.  Gordon  Pym 

3 

i 

Never  Bet  the  Devil  Your  Head     . 

4 

283 

323 

Oval  Portrait,  The         .... 

4 

320 

Pit  and  the  Pendulum,  The  . 

.       5 

8i 

Power  of  Words,  The    .... 

.       6 

157 

Predicament,  A     .         .         . 

3 

235 

Premature  Burial,  The 

•       5 

300 

348 

Title  Index 

VOL.  PAGE 

Purloined  Letter,  The 6  84 

Shadow:  A  Parable 2  176 

Silence :  A  Fable 3  250 

Some  Words  with  a  Mummy         ....  6  57 

Spectacles,  The 5  188 

Sphinx,  The 6  338 

System  of  Dr.  Tarr  and  Professor  Fether,  The        .  6  174 

Tale  of  Jerusalem,  A 2  254 

Tale  of  the  Ragged  Mountains,  A          ...  5  245 

Tell-Tale  Heart,  The 5  106 

"  Thou  Art  the  Man  " 6  i 

Thousand-and-Second  Tale  of  Scheherazade .         .  6  130 

Three  Sundays  in  a  Week 4  299 

Unparalleled  Adventures  of  One  Hans  Pfaall,  The  .  2  50 

Von  Kempelen  and  His  Discovery         ...  6  295 
Why  the  Little  Frenchman  Wears  His  Hand  in  a 

Sling 4  25 

William  Wilson 3  317 

X-ing  a  Paragrab 6  327 

POEMS.     FIRST  LINES 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl!    the  spirit  flown 

forever! i  56 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June        ...  i  63 

At  morn,  at  noon,  at  twilight  dim         ...  i  73 

Because  I  feel  that,  in  the  heavens  above      .        .  i  143 

Beloved !  amid  the  earnest  woes   ....  i  74 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely       .         .         .  i  109 

Dim  vales,  and  shadowy  floods      ....  i  50 

Fair  isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers .         .  i  100 

Fair  river!  in  thy  bright,  clear  flow       ...  i  47 

For  her  this  rhyme  is  penned,  whose  luminous  eyes,  i  134 

From  childhood's  hour  I  have  not  seen  i  53 

Gaily  bedight i  149 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells      .         .         .         .  i  136 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me i  55 

I  dwelt  alone  in  a  world  of  moan          .         .         .  i  121 

I  heed  not  that  my  earthly  lot       .         .         .  i  52 

349 


Title  Index 


In  heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell        .... 

In  spring  of  youth  it  was  my  lot  . 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys        .... 

In  visions  of  the  dark  night 

In  youth  have  I  known  one  with  whom  the  earth    . 

I  saw  thee  once,  once  only,  years  ago  . 

I  saw  thee  on  thy  bridal  day          .... 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 

Kind  solace  in  a  dying  hour          .... 

Lo !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

Lo !  't  is  a  gala  night 

Not  long  ago,  the  writer  of  these  lines  . 

Of  all  who  hail  thy  presence  as  the  morning 

Oh!  nothing  earthly  save  the  ray 

Oh  that  my  young  life  were  a  lasting  dream 

Once  it  smiled,  a  silent  dell 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 

weak  and  weary 

Romance,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing    . 

"  Seldom  we  find,"  says  Solomon  Don  Dunce 

Science!  true  daughter  of  old  Time  thou  art 

Take  this  kiss  upon  the  brow        .... 

Thank  Heaven!  the  crisis —          .... 

The  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see   . 

The  happiest  day,  the  happiest  hour 

There  are  some  qualities,  some  incorporate  things  . 

The  ring  is  on  my  hand 

The  skies  were  ashen  and  sober    .... 

Thou  art  sad,  Castiglione 

Thou  wast  that  all  to  me,  love      .... 
Thou  wouldst  be  loved  ?  then  let  thy  heart  . 
Thy  soul  shall  find  itself  alone       .... 

'T  was  noontide  of  summer 

Type  of  the  antique  Rome !     Rich  reliquary . 


VOL. 

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PAGE 
66 

I 

25 

I 

103 

I 

22 

I 

20 

i 

131 

I 

II 

I 

141 

I 

I 

I 

60 

I 
I 

107 

128 

I 
I 

123 

28 

I 

12 

I 

58 

I 

112 

I 

49 

I 

130 

I 
I 

27 
18 

i 

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48 

23 
106 

IOI 

124 
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75 

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35° 


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UCD  LIBRARY 

DUEFEB17  1970 

FEB11  REC'O 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'69(N831a8)458-A-31/5 


N9  674526 

PS2600 
Poe,  E.A,  F02 

The  complete  works  of       v.10 
Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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